


Do you have to let it linger?

by Friedom



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archivist Sasha James, Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Jonmartim is the main ship, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other, Piercings, Pining, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, This was meant to be a short non-horror au fic but neither of those happened, Trans Character, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Martin Blackwood, boy this is just headcanon/fanon city
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24724144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friedom/pseuds/Friedom
Summary: Based on this tumblr post:"jonmartim actually presents the opportunity for a True Love Triangle, you know, one where all the parties are actually connected rather than just one person having to choose between two others. i mean obviously the resolution is the three of them together but imagine the dramatic buildup of a slow burn where martin loves jon but is sure he’s uninterested, and loves tim but is sure he’s into jon; tim loves jon but is sure he’s uninterested, and loves martin but is sure he’s into jon; they start sleeping together bc they’re friends and they love each other but they call it a no strings attached thing bc they won’t admit they love each other; and jon loves both of them but has trouble admitting it to himself, and by the time he does he’s sure they’re only into each other." - martindykewood
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Michael | The Distortion
Comments: 101
Kudos: 284





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspiration](https://martindykewood.tumblr.com/post/613717191168278528/jonmartim-actually-presents-the-opportunity-for-a)  
> I sat down to write this out of a random burst of inspiration after reading that post, and then I woke up 8 hours later with 8k and no end in sight. It's twice that now, and I mostly know where I'm going with it. Pray for me.  
> Thanks to [goose](https://vwampires.tumblr.com) (vwampires on tumblr) for doing most of the beta work for me, and to my friend Silver for playing horrible rubber duck when I got stuck.

Martin crushes easily. The postman who made him laugh, the pretty cashier, the librarian with the sweet smile, he has a whole gallery of them. Sometimes he curses himself for it, but it is something he has accepted about himself.

That is to say, Martin has had many an unfortunate crush in his life, but the current situation is a new low even for him. Every infatuation with boys from higher grades who wouldn’t look twice at him even when they thought he was a girl, every sigh he has uttered over someone who probably didn’t even remember his name, they all pale in comparison to this new pickle he has found himself in.

Martin has a crush on not one, but both of his fellow archival assistants. Luckily, his boss is a woman, or he would probably have a crush on her too, he thinks a little bitterly.

Jon and Tim couldn’t be more different if they tried, really. Jon is over a head smaller than Martin, skinny and hidden under cardigans and pristine white shirts. Martin would be tempted to call his style stuffy if it suited him an ounce less well. Instead he just looks distinguished and a little hipster-y.

Tim is as free with his skin as he is with his jokes, always one opened button away from unprofessional and pants so tight around his arse that Martin blushes every time he bends over. He does that a lot; Martin has to wonder if he does it on purpose. Tim is flirty and smiles a lot, showing off dazzling straight white teeth and dimples. It’s no wonder that he has no problem getting information out of people when investigating. His confidence is enviable, but with the way he looks, that’s no wonder.

Martin… can’t hold a candle to them. He’s chubby and prefers pullovers that are just a little large on him. Everything about him is as soft and as inoffensive as he can make it, in an effort not to look like he is taking up too much space. Testosterone gave him a late growth spurt in his twenties, and he still doesn’t quite know what to do with himself sometimes. It makes him clumsy - well,  _ more _ clumsy - and his pale skin makes his embarrassment horrifyingly obvious to anyone who cares to look.

Point is, Martin is aware that he isn’t exactly a dreamboat. He’s not fun like Tim, or smart like Jon, so he isn’t expecting them to look at him the way he looks at them. At least Tim is friendly, going to lunch with him in the break and smiling at him when he brings him tea. Jon is… well, he’s busy and honestly a little antisocial, so Martin tries not to take it to heart when he snaps at him or ignores him or dismisses him without a word. At least he usually drinks the tea.

Martin is glad of Tim’s easily offered friendship, he really is. He just wishes he would stop talking about Jon so much. Thing is, Martin is pretty sure that Tim is into Jon, even if most of what he says about him is a little mocking. “Mr. Grumpy,” he’ll say, and “Oh but we wouldn’t want to insult his fine sensibilities,” but he’s always got this soft tilt to his smile when he does, and it hurts Martin’s heart to see. Not just for himself, but for Tim as well.

Because he’s pretty sure that Jon doesn’t  _ do _ relationships. He always seems completely married to his work, and he’s heard the secretaries talking about it, how they heard somewhere from someone who heard from someone that Jon  _ doesn’t _ . Whatever that means.

So yeah, Martin is in love with two of his co-workers, one of whom probably likes the other, who is likely some variation of asexual. He tries not to be bitter about it, but it just seems a little unfair.

  


* * *

  


You won’t hear him admitting it out loud, but Tim has always loved romcoms. The drama, the tension, the happy ending, it all just called to him.

Until he landed himself in a romcom of his own, that is. Not that it feels very funny from his perspective, and trust him, he has tried.

Tim is used to his love life being easy, fun. He knows he’s handsome, and he had no problem with using it to his own advantage. He makes sure that his partners come out of it happy, so Tim really doesn’t see the problem.

People have called him a lot of things for it. He doesn’t let it bother him. Nothing they say could hurt worse than what his father used to call him.

So, Tim is used to getting what he wants, sexually. He does take no for an answer, of course, but most people won’t say no to him. And if they do, well, it’s really no skin off his back.

Usually.

But lately, Tim can’t seem to bring himself to ask for what he wants. It’s not that he’s embarrassed, but it’s just… complicated. Because he’s serious about his latest interests, and while that’s not exactly  _ new _ to him either, it does make the idea of a refusal much scarier.

Not to mention the impact on work relationships.

Because Tim has crushes on his co-workers. Both of them.

Crushing on Martin isn’t a surprise, really. He’s cute, and sweet, and Tim likes cute and sweet. He’s got some obvious, tragic self-image issues, and Tim is just itching to show him how wonderful he thinks he is.

But Martin likes Jon. And that’s a problem because Tim can relate, but it also means that Martin probably doesn’t like Tim like that.

It’s obvious from the disappointed look Martin gets whenever Jon doesn’t thank him for his fresh tea - which is delicious and Tim is quite angry that Jon doesn’t seem to properly appreciate it – from the way Martin’s eyes always are pulling towards Jon, the way he listens to every rant Jon goes on no matter how weird and specific it is. Not that Tim doesn’t appreciate how hot Jon looks in full lecturer mode, but Martin actually pays attention to what the man is saying. It’s pretty impressive.

Crushing on Jon was more unexpected. He isn’t normally into uptight academic types. In fact, for the longest time, he didn’t go for Jon either. But they’ve known each other for years now, much longer than they’ve been working in the archives under Sasha. They joined The Magnus Institute’s research team at the same time, and were even in the same newbie training team even.

Back then Tim just found Jon fun to rile up a little. He still does, but now it comes from a place of deep affection for this strange little man he works with. He scares himself a little with that, to be honest. Jesus, he isn’t even dating the guy, he really shouldn’t get so smiley over him.

As for  _ why _ he isn’t dating Jon yet, well. To be plain, Tim doesn’t think Jon is interested. They’re friendly as one can get with a man with the character of the average stray cat, Tim even thinks that Jon probably likes him, but, well- in all the years they have known each other, Tim has never seen Jon show even the slightest interest in dating, or even hook-ups, and Tim isn’t that thick. He has other asexual friends, and some of them date, but he doesn’t think Jon does.

Not that he’s asked. Not that he knows how to. He doesn’t want to make Jon uncomfortable. He doesn’t want Jon to stop liking him at all, no matter how much it itches at him.

  


* * *

  


Jon doesn’t like to spend time pondering attraction. He doesn’t really see the point; he experiences it so rarely, why let it weigh on his mind?

Georgie said he was probably asexual, when he described his experience with attraction to her on her prompting. Demiromantic maybe, she had said, when he told her that she had been maybe his third crush in life. Jon thinks she may be right but doesn’t really care to label something that isn’t there. He doesn’t feel like he is missing anything, and he doesn’t talk about it with anyone else, so what does he need words for it for?

He’s been thinking about it more and more since he and Tim transferred to the archives.

Jon isn’t blind; he has known that Tim is handsome since they met. He also knows that Tim is a bit of a dick, and that he sleeps around a lot, but that he’s overall a good person. Objectively, he’s probably attractive. His long string of flings speaks to that. For most of the time they have known each other, that has been all Jon had to say about the topic.

He doesn’t know what changed. When the easy affection Tim shows him started worming himself into his heart. Jon knows he isn’t easy to get along with, he’s been thusly informed plenty of times, but Tim doesn’t seem to mind his temper or his preoccupation with his work; in fact, he seems to find his outbursts funny, based on how frequently he incites them.

Jon isn’t sure what it is he’s feeling at first. It’s been years since him and Georgie broke up, there hasn’t been anyone since her. But the way his heart beat a happy tune when he heard that Tim would be changing departments with him is telling.

He went home that day and spent the night analysing every interaction they had had in the months prior to look for when he might have developed these feelings. Jon has yet to pinpoint it still.

And Martin. Well, Martin is- it’s complicated. Jon noticed Martin’s crush on him pretty much immediately. It made him uncomfortable at first, because he didn’t know Martin yet back then and had assumed it might impact their work relationship. He started watching for it, the moment the other man would start making uncomfortable advances, start trying to distract Jon from his job, being overly familiar, invading his privacy.

That moment never came.

Instead, Jon has come to know a lot of things about Martin, most of them gleaned from conversations the other man had with Tim or Sasha, some of them simply deduced from the way he carries himself. He’s learned that Martin is kind-hearted, that he doesn’t like the thought of killing even a spider, that he worries way too much about everything and everybody.

He has learned that he was wrong to assume Martin would ever want to risk making him uncomfortable. Jon doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

Jon knows he could stop watching Martin when the other isn’t looking now. He really should, it’s probably a little creepy and Martin is bound to notice it at some point. But it’s a habit now, and he catches himself doing it unintentionally despite his best efforts.

His eyes fix themselves to Martin’s hands, big and gentle and a little clumsy, or to the way he never quite stands up all the way, always a little hunched in. He watches him talk to Tim, smiling and a little flushed when Tim teases him. He watches him adjust his glasses and run his hand through his mess of curly red hair as he squints at the one old computer terminal they have. He traces his freckles and finds himself wishing to be closer, and that surprises him so much that he jolts and almost spills his tea.

So yeah, the Martin situation is complicated. Sure, Martin has some kind of crush on him, but it is clearly up to Jon if anything is going to come of it, and Jon isn’t sure what he even wants to come of it, if anything.

After all, there’s always the thing with Tim.

Not to mention, after Georgie and him ended… Well, Jon really doesn’t want that to happen again. They’re sort of friends again now, after a few years of radio silence ended with her calling the Institute with questions for her podcast, but there was a lot of hurt back then.

And so, Jon sits and broods on attraction and having two separate crushes at the same time after a lifetime almost free of them. 


	2. Chapter 1 - "Not-Christmas"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first "real" chapter, how exciting! We begin with Martin having a bad time, go over to Tim making bad life choices and finish with Jon having an unusually long conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed, but I edited it afterwards so any mistakes are probably still mine

It starts, as many bad decisions do, with alcohol.

Martin is standing at an edge table at the Institute’s annual Christmas party, nursing a beer, wondering why he’s even here. It’s not like he even celebrates Christmas. Tim is somewhere in the crowd, probably chatting up one of the secretaries or the new library clerk or something. Jon is talking to the head of the institute and his husband.

Elias Bouchard always freaks Martin out a little, but he seems to be positively in love with his co-worker. His husband – Peter something? – seems to be much less invested in the conversation. In fact, it looks like the only thing keeping him on this plane of existence is his husband’s claw-fingered grip on his arm.

Martin tries to push down the bitterness he feels and takes another sip of his beer. It’s not even good beer.

He can empathize with Peter; he would rather disappear too. Before he can find an escape route, though, someone steps up to him from behind, throwing an arm over his shoulder.

“There you are, Martin!” Tim’s voice says, a little loud in his ear and clearly tipsy. His breath smells of wine, and Martin immediately starts worrying that he may have had too much. He isn’t leaning on Martin too much though, mostly standing on his own long legs, so Martin lets it go for now.

“Hi Tim,” he mumbles into his bottle, trying to will down his blush at how close Tim is. “Were you looking for me?”

“Of course, I’m always looking for you!” Tim answers exuberantly, winking, making Martin’s blush deepen. He quickly looks away from him, his eyes instead catching again on Jon. Elias has let go of Peter and now instead has one hand on Jon’s shoulder. Martin can’t be certain from this angle, but Jon looks pretty uncomfortable.

Tim must’ve followed his gaze to the pair. Martin can feel him tensing beside him, standing up straighter with a huff. “You know, I’ve never really liked the big boss much,” he says, a hard edge to his voice. Martin just hums.

“Wanna go rescue him?” Tim asks next, and Martin finds himself nodding without even thinking about it too hard.

* * *

Jon doesn’t remember how he got here, talking to his boss and his husband about traditional values of all things. He just knows that he doesn’t like it.

Peter isn’t really contributing much, rather staring out of the window into the grey London winter afternoon. Elias is talking plenty for both of them, though, and Jon doesn’t know how to escape.

He’s had only a few sips of his wine, well aware of his meagre alcohol tolerance, but he feels a little buzzed anyways, his thoughts just a little sluggish. He keeps nodding along and humming, only half listening to Elias as he looks for an escape route, but his brain keeps catching on the words being said. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, but he doesn’t find himself able to agree with much of it.

But this is his boss, he can’t exactly tell him he’s being a bit of a wanker. 

Suddenly, Elias is closer, laying a hand on Jon’s shoulder in a way that makes Jon’s skin crawl, and talking about how he actually had wanted Jon for the head archivist position, and Jon doesn’t know what to do. He goes tense, a spring loaded to run, but Elias is still talking, and Jon can’t just-

But then two other bodies sidle up to him. Jon jumps, but he recognizes the easy way that Tim slings an arm around Jon’s shoulders from the many times the man has done it before. It also conveniently pushes away Elias’ hand, and Jon fights not to sigh with relief.

“Hey there boss man, what are you two whispering about?” He asks, grin blinding and only a little less friendly than usual. Before Jon can ponder that, however, another touch startles him. A warm, big hand settles carefully between his shoulder blades. It must be Martin’s, and the thought is strangely exhilarating. It feels… nice, to be bracketed between the two taller men, and he realises belatedly that they seem to have come to _rescue_ _him_.

What a strange thought.

Jon’s heart is beating loudly in his ears. He’s so glad for his dark skin in that moment; he can feel the blood heating his cheeks.

“Timothy, how pleasant. How’s your family?” Elias asks, voice just a little cutting. Jon can feel Tim tense further beside him.

“Oh, they’re just fine, all good. How’s your marriage? Next divorce coming up soon I expect?” Tim shoots back, and Jon flinches a little. It’s an open secret among Institute staff that Elias and Peter are constantly divorcing and remarrying, he thinks the library staff actually has a tally of how often it has happened, but people don’t tend to mention it to Elias’ face. It seems like the sort of thing that might be a sensitive topic.

The way that Elias’ expression tightens confirms that assumption, but then he smiles again, sharp and cold.

“I see,” is all he says, then he inclines his head and walks away.

Jon looks up at Tim to find him glaring at their boss’ back, but before he can comment on it, Martin pipes up.

“Tim…” he begins, concerned frown etching his face. Tim shakes himself and sighs, turning away.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I hardly think he’s going to fire me over this,” he assures them, cocky smile returning but a little strained. Jon doesn’t like it.

“I’m sure Sasha wouldn’t let him, she likes you,” he says, trying for comfort and instead coming out more dismissive than intended. Tim’s smile turns a little realer.

“Thanks, Jon. Hope you didn’t mind that little rescue, you weren’t looking too happy there.” He winks at Jon, and Jon’s traitorous heart skips a beat.

“Yeah, well. You weren’t wrong. He was telling me how he would’ve preferred me for Sasha’s position, which is just…”

“…Wrong,” Martin finishes, then hastens to add, “not that you wouldn’t make a good archivist, Jon, but Sasha was specially trained by the former Archivist, right?”

“Not surprised, if you ask me. Elias always struck me as a little… traditionalist,” Tim agrees, and Jon nods in agreement.

“It was overall not a very pleasant conversation, so… Thanks, you two, I guess.” Jon ducks his head.

“No problemo,” Tim laughs and lets go of Jon to give him finger guns. It makes Jon smile despite himself, and Tim’s grin only grows. Martin pulls away too, and Jon tries not to miss either of their touch.

They stand there in silence for a moment, looking at each other, then Jon clears his throat awkwardly.

“Well, I think I’m going to head home. I don’t really feel like partying anymore.” Neither of them complains, waving goodbye to him on his way out, and Jon almost books it out of the Institute and back home. He has a lot to think about.

* * *

Tim and Martin get left behind in Jon’s wake, both looking at the door he left through, a little lost. Martin lets out a big sigh, and it might be the alcohol, but Tim suddenly can’t keep quiet anymore.

“Sighing after him? Your pining is showing, Martin dear,” he teases, trying to sound casual despite feeling anything but. Martin turns to him with a squeak in shock, adorable blush already forming, and Tim tries to stop his heart from exploding from his chest. How is this man real?

Martin frowns at him. “Oh, so yours isn’t? Playing knight in shining armour like that?” he shoots back, and Tim puts a hand to his chest in mock-offence.

“You think I wouldn’t rescue someone I didn’t have a crush on? I’m hurt, Martin!” Only the look on Martin’s face makes him realise what he just unwittingly admitted to.

“Ah, but this isn’t going to be a problem, right? We don’t have to battle it out for his hand or something, do we?” he asks, hands coming up in a placating motion. Martin just sighs, shuffling in place.

“No, Tim, this doesn’t have to… come between us, or whatever. As far as I can tell, Jon doesn’t… well he just  _ doesn’t _ , right? So, there would be no point anyways,” he says, looking back at the door. Tim finds himself nodding along. This is pretty much along the lines of what he figured as well. They stand there in mutual misery for another long moment, then Tim’s alcohol-addled brain sparks and before he can really think about what he’s doing, he’s talking again.

“You know, we could always… help each other out, you know? Jon might not be into either of us, but, if you wanted to, I wouldn’t mind…  _ well _ ,” he wiggles his eyebrows at Martin, who gives him an incredulous look.

“You can’t be serious, Tim.” 

“Oh, but I’m perfectly serious, Martin dear. It wouldn’t have to be a big thing, just casual, you know? It’s what I’m best at anyways!” Tim can’t stop himself, why can’t he stop himself and his big mouth. This is so stupid, he should say ‘Sike!’ and let it lie. He doesn’t like the twist to Martin’s mouth, though, and he feels like rescinding the offer would only make him feel worse.

“Tim… you can’t really want…” Martin starts, but Tim doesn’t let him finish.

“Yes, I want, Martin. I think you’re perfectly good-looking and would love to take you to bed if you would let me. No joke, I promise.” He offers the other man his hand. Martin hesitates for a long moment, searching Tim’s eyes, but in the end, he takes it. Tim tries very hard not to look like his heart is jumping with joy as he leads him out of the Institute and back home to his flat. He must succeed, because Martin doesn’t let go of him.

* * *

The Christmas party on December 23 rd was the last day the Institute would be open for the year, so the next time Jon sees his colleagues isn’t until January 2 nd ; Elias may be a traditionalist dick, but his holiday policies are nothing to scoff at. Jon spends most of his free time watching documentaries on his couch and trying not to think about Tim or Martin or both. 

Georgie calls him on the 1 st to wish him a Happy New Year, and they spend a good hour chatting about various topics. The conversation is winding down when she suddenly blurts out, “I’m in a serious relationship again.”

Jon doesn’t really know how to feel so he doesn’t react audibly, and she continues, “I just thought you might deserve to know. It’s fairly recent, but I really like her, in a way I haven’t liked anyone since you and I broke up and- “

Jon interrupts her there, hastening to tell her “That’s great!” His voice comes out a little wobbly.

“Really?” Georgie asks, sounding hopeful.

“Of course! Georgie, that’s wonderful! Really, I think that’s great,” he says, and he means it even if the words are awkward. He can hear Georgie let go of a big gust of breath.

“I’m- I’m glad, Jon. I know we didn’t really, well, separate easily, so I was afraid that- “

“No, I get it. Don’t worry about it. I’ve- I’ve moved on, it’s okay.” Georgie hums at the other end of the line. Jon is glad for the break; his heart needs a moment to calm down.

That all flies out of the window when Georgie asks, “So is there anyone on your end?” She doesn’t sound anything more than curious, but Jon’s heart and mind go into overdrive. He must hesitate for too long, because Georgie laughs a little incredulously.

“What, really?” she asks, and Jon wants to die a little bit.

“No- I mean, yes, but- It’s complicated, Georgie,” he stammers. Georgie laughs again, joyful and a little teasing.

“When is it not, with you, Jonathan Sims?” she asks, and he doesn’t even try to refute it he’s so caught off guard. “So, let’s hear it. Who is it? Spill!” she demands, and Jon thinks about blowing her off, but- He likes Georgie. He may not be in love with her anymore, but he trusts her a lot. Maybe talking about it will help?

“Oh alright, alright. It’s, uh, these two guys I work with, um- “

“Wait,  _ both _ of them?!” Georgie exclaims, and Jon is already regretting this.

“Yes, Georgie, both of them!” he snaps, face hot.

“Oh shit- Sorry, sorry Jon, that’s fine! It’s just, well. I thought you don’t crush easily?” Georgie hastens, apologetic, and Jon relents. There is silence for a moment while he calms down, until Georgie calls his name, gently prompting.

“Yes, well. Miracles do happen, I suppose,” Jon finally responds. Georgie snorts softly.

“What are they like?” she asks, and Jon has to think for a moment.

“Their names are Martin and Tim,” he begins, and then somehow, he ends up venting to Georgie about his love life for another 2 hours. It’s freeing and mortifying in turns, and more than once Georgie ends up laughing at him over the phone. She also tells him about her new girlfriend, Melanie, and her YouTube show.

It’s a good talk. They promise to talk again soon, maybe meet up for coffee sometime, and when Jon hangs up, he feels a lot better about his situation. He still doesn’t know what to do about it, but he’s surer of his feelings now than he has been in months.


	3. Chapter 2 - "The Other Woman"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All in all not a great start into the New Year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure for how long I'll be able to keep up the daily posting schedule. At one point I am going to actually have to do my course work if I want to pass the exams next month, and I also can't expect my beta to have time for me at all hours. For now I still have some backlog, though.

Jon comes into work on the 2nd in an uncharacteristic good mood. It lasts all the way into the archives, where he heads to his desk, trying not to seem too eager as he looks around for anyone else already in, and then stops dead.

There, in the little nook where their office kitchenette sits, are Tim and Martin. That alone isn’t so surprising, Martin often gets a round of tea started first thing in the morning, and Tim will sometimes join him to procrastinate starting on his work. But the way that Tim has positively draped himself over Martin as he works that makes Jon freeze.

Tim’s face is pressed into Martin’s shoulder and he’s half-groaning half-mumbling something, Jon can hear the deep rumble of his voice, and Martin doesn’t seem to mind at all. Martin, who is so careful about Jon’s personal space, is _letting_ Tim clutch him like a human octopus, is smiling and patting his arm and answering his complaints with amused words of comfort.

A question worms itself into Jon’s mind unbidden as he lets himself slump onto his chair, eyes dropping to the desktop. _Are they together?_

And wouldn’t that be just typical of both his life and luck, to finally accept his feelings and then find the objects of his affections are actually already dating each other. Not that- not that Jon had decided he wanted to date either of them, but, well- he had been hoping that maybe he had a chance. Itt seems like he may be too late.

“Jon!” Martin exclaims, still in the kitchenette, having spotted him at his desk. Apparently, he got Tim to let him go, because the two are just standing there together now, looking at him with matching startlement. Martin’s pale cheeks are colouring a deep red. Jon tries not to stare

“Ah, good morning…” He says on autopilot, waving a little awkwardly. Tim, suddenly wide awake apparently, jumps on it.

“And good morning to you! How’s the new year treating you, Jonny Boy?” he asks, bounding over and sitting at his own desk as if nothing had happened. Jon doesn’t know what to do except go along with it.

“Oh, it’s been alright. Talked to an old friend for a while yesterday, that was nice,” he answers, trying for casual and falling maybe a little short.

“That’s nice,” Martin comments, bringing over the tea he had made.

“Yeah! Anyone we would know?” Tim asks, accepting his tea gratefully.

“Probably not, Georgie is an ex from university,” Jon reaches for his own tea as he speaks, but Martin lets go too early and it drops, shattering on the floor.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry Jon, you can have mine, I’ll just-,” Martin immediately starts apologising and runs to get a rag. Jon just sits there, flabbergasted as he cleans up the mess on the floor.

He looks to Tim for explanation – Martin can be clumsy, but not usually this clumsy – but Tim is wearing a weird expression that Jon can’t interpret. In the end, the tea is cleaned up, Martin insists on giving Jon his tea and goes to make himself a new mug.

At a loss for what to do, Jon gets to work. His mind keeps wandering back to the embrace he witnessed, though, and it makes it hard to concentrate. All in all, the day is not a good start into the New Year.

* * *

Martin and Tim don’t even wait till lunch, at the first chance they both excuse themselves and end up pressed into a broom closet. It’s incredibly undignified, and Martin thinks they may have been less casual than they thought from the frown Jon gave them as they left, but he really can’t bring himself to care right now.

Because Jon has an _ex_.

Which means that Jon _dates_.

“Maybe he was still figuring himself out?” he throws out into the heavy silence. Tim hums, deep in thought. They’re clutching each other’s arms, not hugging but keeping contact. It’s comfortable, familiar.

They had spent most of the Christmas holidays together. Turns out, Tim also doesn’t have any family left, and since neither of them celebrates Christmas, neither of them had any other plans. It was… nice. Yeah, nice.

Being with Tim is fun, he makes Martin feel welcome and wanted in a way that he isn’t used to. It was hard to even believe that Tim might want to sleep with him, but clearly, going by his enthusiasm that first time after the party, he did. And by every other time since, he _still does_. It still boggles Martin’s mind a little to be honest.

Tim is… incredible in bed. Not just his skills, though they are certainly also incredible. No, he is talkative, and vocal, full of praise and appreciation. Martin learned that Tim likes it when he blushes, especially when they are naked so he can see it crawl all the way over his chest. He learned that Tim likes his voice, and the noises he can make him make, and exactly how Tim likes to be fucked.

It has only been a little more than a week, but Martin feels… different, with all this knowledge of how to please Tim. It makes him more centred, makes him stand up a little straighter when he thinks about how he made Tim scream that one time. It’s good.

He has also learned one more thing: Tim leaves all concepts of personal space behind once it has become clear that one is comfortable being touched. Martin kind of loves it. But then again, he might just love Tim, so that isn’t surprising.

Which is a bit of a problem since they’re only sleeping with each other casually to get over their co-worker.

“You don’t know any Georgie, do you?” he asks, snapping Tim out of his fugue. He shakes his head, squeezing Martin’s elbows.

“Then there really isn’t any reason to freak out, right? Just because he dated someone in university doesn’t mean he is up to dating _now_ ,” Martin reasons and Tim nods again, posture slowly relaxing.

“You’re right, you’re right, I just… I’ve known him since we joined, right? He’s never mentioned an ex before.” Martin squeezes Tim and then slowly lets go.

“You saw me drop that mug, you don’t have to explain anything to me,” he jokes. It’s weak, but it returns the smile to Tim’s face. The taller man leans in to press a kiss to Martin’s cheek.

“Let’s go do some work, otherwise Sasha might just fire us.”

* * *

Jon watches Martin and Tim hurriedly leaving the archives together not 5 minutes after the beginning of the workday with growing suspicion. It’s irrational, he tells himself. They leave the archives plenty to do outside research. Sometimes people will go together. It’s no big deal, right?

He follows them anyways. Tim is holding onto Martin’s elbow tightly while they stride down the hallways so quickly that Jon, cursing his shorter legs, has to jog a little to keep them in sight.

He’s very lucky that they don’t glance behind, as sneaking really isn’t his forte.

He doesn’t follow them for long. They halt in front of a broom closet just a few halls down from the archives, in a quiet area below the library. Then Tim opens the door and pushes Martin inside, following him and closing the door behind.

Jon considers listening at the door, but this situation seems very clear to him. Not to mention, if they open the door, he can’t explain at all why he is there, in this wing, standing in front of the door of a broom closet.

And maybe he’s afraid he’ll hear… _noises_. Sue him.

So, he heads back to the archives, sits down heavily at his desk for the second time in less than an hour and tries to work. It’s hard. He can’t focus at all. He winds up staring at statements uncomprehendingly, mind awhirl with images of Tim and Martin, probably snogging in that broom cupboard right at this moment.

Are they having sex? Surely not, it’s 7am! But they had been in an awful hurry to get privacy, only to make out…

Jon gives up on reading the statement entirely when his phone buzzes. It’s a text from Georgie,

_Coffee on Thursday?_

It’s Tuesday, the week having started a day late because of the holidays. Jon thinks for a moment about his workload and whether he can afford to leave early, but it’s light enough that he can probably swing it.

He also really wants to see Georgie. She may laugh at him sometimes, but it’s nice to talk to someone familiar.

_Sure, meet me at the bookshop café at 3?_

The bookshop café is a spot they used to go to all the time in university. It’s half library, half café, and it makes wonderful drinks. They would study there sometimes, or just spend afternoons. It’s quiet, and familiar, and he hasn’t been there in ages.

Georgie texts back a thumbs up emoji, and Jon puts his phone away. A few seconds later, it buzzes again.

He debates not looking, but he also really doesn’t want to go back to brooding.

It’s another text from Georgie, surprisingly. No text, just a picture. It shows the Admiral, stretched out to take up Georgie’s entire couch. It’s the same couch she has had since university, a little stained in places and very old, but if he recalls it correctly it is incredibly comfortable. The picture makes him smile.

 _Pet him for me?_ , he types. Then he adds some heart emojis, because that’s how they have always communicated, and he thinks she’ll understand that they’re mostly for her cat.

 _Always_ , she answers. _Maybe you can come visit him some time, he misses you._

 _Maybe,_ he texts back _. I miss him too._

_You could always get your own cat, Jon._

_And cheat on the Admiral? I could never!_

_Lmao_

At this point, Tim and Martin re-enter the archives and Jon shoves his phone back into his bag. He eyes them, looking for visible dishevelment, but they look perfectly respectable. At the same moment, Sasha opens the door to her office, a thick stack of statements in her arms, and dumps them on the table in the centre of their desks.

“No texting at work, Jon,” she says and Jon flinches. Sasha is usually nice, but she is also very busy and doesn’t take lightly to slacking. “And no canoodling at work either, Martin, Tim.” They both look a little gobsmacked, and Tim mouths ‘how.’ Jon would like to know that, too; there aren’t any cameras in the archives. There’s no way she could have seen him, right?

Sasha gives each of them a hard look. “I need these looked into, so everyone, get to work, alright?” she asks. All three of them nod meekly. With a satisfied nod, Sasha disappears back into her office. The three of them get to work in short order, thoroughly chastised.

While they’re dividing up the new statements, Tim comments, “Our fearless leader seems a little stressed.” Jon gives him a flat look.

“Maybe if more of us did their jobs, she wouldn’t be so stressed, Tim.”

Tim leers at him. “Oh? And who was _texting_ _at work_ , huh, Jon? Really, I’m disappointed, I didn’t even know a grandpa like you even knew how to text.”

Jon’s look only grows flatter. “Tim, you _have_ my phone number. Not to mention, we’re literally the same age. And anyways, I don’t want to hear criticism from someone who was, apparently, _canoodling_.”

Martin squeaks, face very red where he has been hiding it behind a statement.

Tim’s leer grows dirty. “Oh? Don’t tell me you’re _jealous_?”

Jon is about to respond hotly, caught out and indignant, but Sasha’s office door opens again. She stares them down for a long moment, intimidating eyebrow rising further the more they shrink back.

“I said. Get. To. Work.”

They work silently for the rest of the day.


	4. Chapter 3 - "Coffee and Courtship"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Georgie and Jon reconnect in person, and Jon soon is reminded on the joys and tribulations of having a best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, I make the Chapter titles up as I post them. The work title is from Linger by the Cranberries, because that's the song I listen to on repeat as I write this. Hours of it, without pause. Help.

Georgie is already at their usual table when Jon arrives. She has a book on ghost stories open on the table in front of her, but she looks up when he sits down on the other chair, setting his cup of tea down.

“That book again? You must’ve read it a thousand times by now, Georgie,” he comments, and she smiles at him.

“A thousand and one, actually. It’s still good,” she answers. He smiles back. They spend a moment just taking each other in; this is the first time they have seen each other since university ended, and both of them have changed quite a bit.

Georgie raises an eyebrow at his shirt and cardigan. “That’s a new look for you,” she says. Jon tugs on his long sleeves, a little self-conscious.

“The boss at the institute is a little old-fashioned. At this point it’s a habit,” he answers her non-question. “You cut your hair?”

“Shaved it, yeah. The afro was fun, but it gets in the way,” she explains. He hums. “You kept yours long?”

“Oh, yeah. It hides the piercing holes. And I like it this way.” It’s Georgie’s turn to hum.

“They’re all still there though?” Jon scoffs at the question.

“Of course they are, I paid money to have those put in!” he huffs, and it makes Georgie laugh, just like he thought it might. They sit smiling for a while, sipping their tea.

“How’s the Admiral?” Jon asks. Georgie takes her phone in hand from where it had been lying face down on the table, opening it to the pictures and handing it to him.

“As you can see, he’s perfectly good.” Jon spends some time scrolling and cooing, until he comes to a picture of an eastern Asian woman with dyed blue hair.

“This is Melanie, yes?” he asks, showing it to her. Georgie gives him a surprised look.

“Yeah it is. You looked her up?” she questions.

“Well of course, gotta make sure your new girlfriend isn’t prettier than me, don’t I?” he jokes. It makes Georgie burst out laughing. Some of the other patrons shoot them annoyed glances, but they used to come here looking like a Hot Topic exploded all over them, so neither of them pays them any mind.

“Sorry Jon, Melanie has even nicer hair than you,” Georgie shoots back. Jon scoffs in mock-offence, and soon they’re both giggling. It’s nice, laughing with Georgie like this. He had almost forgotten how it used to be between them, before the fights.

They sit in comfortable silence again before Georgie closes her book that she hadn’t been reading and leans forward.

“So how’re your boys?” she asks him, a knowing smirk on her lips. Jon can feel a blush rising, which wouldn’t be a problem if Georgie didn’t know his tells. Her smirk widens.

“Did something happen?” she prompts further, steepling her fingers like the villain of some cheap detective novel.

And Jon tells her everything. About how he found Martin and Tim hugging in the kitchenette on the 2 nd , and how they went to hide in a broom closet for half an hour in the middle of the work day, and just about every other time in the past 2 days that he has seen them acting just a little over-familiar.

Georgie listens to him attentively. At the end of it, she sits back and thinks it all over, her fingers drumming on the countertop.

Then finally, she asks, “Isn’t them being together a good thing, though?”

It catches Jon so off guard that he doesn’t know quite what to say at first.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, look at it like this. You and me, we didn’t work out in the end because, in hindsight, we may have been trying too hard to be… monogamous? We weren’t willing to admit that maybe we just weren’t compatible, sexually, and that it was leaving both of us frustrated.”

Jon has to take a moment to let that sink in. He had always thought that, in some way, their breaking up back then was  _ his _ fault. That it was him who wasn’t able to satisfy her, low as his sex drive is. He had also been a little angry at her, though, for expecting things of him that he wasn’t ready to give.

The idea that it may have been both of their fault, it hadn’t really occurred to him. He nods slowly, and Georgie goes on.

“So, if you are right and the two of them are in some way together, and sleeping with each other, then they can satisfy each other, right? I’ve met some polyromantic couples in the past few years, and apparently it isn’t unheard of for one of the partners to rarely if ever participate in sex. Who knows, maybe you three could be like that?”

It sounds too good to be true. A relationship where no one expects him to have sex, where no one is unsatisfied because he doesn’t generally want to have sex, but with all the… everything else? It sounds perfect, but Jon doesn’t know if he can trust perfect. Not to mention…

“But what if they’re happier without me?” he asks, thinking out loud. Georgie sighs and reaches for his hand next to his teacup.

“That’s always possible, Jon. But… well, I certainly wasn’t  _ happier _ without you in my life. I was miserable those first few months after we broke up, actually. I felt like such a dick. You weren’t just my boyfriend, you were my best friend too, and I had lost them both because of sex? I’m glad that we’re talking again, I want to be friends again. And if those two don’t want you, then they’re stupid, ok?” She rubs her thumb over his knuckles as she speaks, looking into his eyes. It is like many conversations they had over the course of university when Jon’s insecurities reared their head, except this time Jon doesn’t feel anything from the contact except platonic affection.

He gives Georgie a wry smile. “Thanks, Georgie. I would like to try being friends again, too. Mostly so I can see the Admiral though.” Georgie snorts and lets go, falling back in her chair and throwing her hands into the air.

“You’re impossible!” she exclaims, and they smile at each other over the table, understanding each other in a way that they both, Jon suspects, had missed quite a lot.

* * *

Coffee with Georgie becomes a regular thing. They meet in the bookshop café, or some other one of their old haunts, or sometimes Jon goes over to hers and spends an afternoon lavishing the Admiral in affection.

Tim and Martin continue to be overly familiar, but Jon stops looking upon it with jealousy. Georgie keeps pestering him to talk to them, confess, but he just can’t find it in him. Something always gets in his way, some new excuse crops up, some old insecurity rears its head, and whatever plan he may have made to confess falls apart under the weight of his uncertainty.

Jon meets Melanie on a cuttingly cold February Saturday. He enters the café bundled in his thickest coat and a soft woollen hat, scarf and mittens combo that he had gotten in an office Secret Santa event that Elias had made everyone in the institute participate in the year before last.

He to this day doesn’t know which kind old lady made them for him, but she must have looked at his skinny frame and thick cardigans and decided he desperately needed some more warmth in his life. She maybe wasn’t so wrong.

Jon orders and goes to look for them. He finds them in a window booth on the second floor, still in the process of trying to unwind his tightly knotted scarf from his head. Melanie’s hair is purple now, and her and Georgie are sitting on the spacious bench with their legs pressed together. He’s pretty sure they’re holding hands under the table.

Georgie spots him first and waves him over. He pointedly looks down at their legs and wrinkles his nose at them, but he makes his way over anyways. Georgie wrinkles her nose right back and sticks her tongue out for good measure.

“Mature as always, Georgie. I see you are devoted to rubbing your happy relationship in as much as possible,” he says in ways of a greeting. Then he turns to Melanie and gives her a polite smile. “Jonathan Sims, nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand to shake.

“Melanie King,” she responds and takes his hand. Her handshake is strong but not rudely so, and it matches her steely eyes. He had wondered, watching her YouTube show, if they could be contacts. He doesn’t think so, in person. She must be a mixed kid; not that he’s judging.

Jon sits down and finally gets his jacket and scarf off. He puts them down on the empty pot beside him untidily, then turns back to the two women.

“So…” he starts, not really sure what to say, but Melanie beats him to it.

“Georgie tells me you work at the Magnus Institute.” She says. It’s not a question, but Jon nods anyways.

“So what’s that like?” Jon eyes her suspiciously.

“If this is for a video, I’ve already told Georgie I don’t consent to interviews,” he tells her. She lets out a short, sharp laugh.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t ruin my reputation like that. My field doesn’t exactly hold you guys in the highest esteem,” she assures, and Jon bristles.

“Yes, well, the feeling is mutual,” he snaps. Melanie’s smile drops and she meets his eyes over the table as if she’s staring right into his soul and finding him lacking. It’s almost enough to make him recoil, but he holds fast and they stare each other down for a long moment. Then Melanie laughs again.

“I like you though, you’re feisty!” she tells him. Jon isn’t sure if he’s glad or offended, but for Georgie’s sake he chooses to go with the former. At that moment, the waiter arrives with their orders. Over the distribution of coffee, tea and cake, Melanie and Georgie put a little bit of space between them, and Jon settles back into his seat.

They talk for a while. Melanie’s humour is sharp and dry, a lot like Jon’s own, and Jon supposes he can sort of see Georgie’s type reflected back at him in her. He likes her, even as he’s vaguely scared of her. He thinks she maybe likes him a little, too. It’s a pleasant afternoon, more or less.

Or it is until he spots Tim coming up the stairs.

He thinks for a moment to hide somehow and then immediately feels ridiculous. Tim is probably with someone; he might not even see Jon at all.

He’s with Martin, Jon realises as the other man follows Tim up the stairs. They came to a café together after work. He tries not to read too much into that.

Georgie seems to have read something on his face and is trying to follow his gaze, but the café is crowded now.

“Someone you know, Jon?” she asks, straining to see who he’s looking at.

“Ah, no-,“ but luck, the unfaithful mistress, won’t bless him, and Martin’s eyes meet his.

Martin visibly startles, then jostles Tim and waves a little awkwardly. Tim’s face splits into a grin the moment he spots Jon, and he starts making his way over.

Jon turns to Georgie, slightly panicked, but she seems to have spotted Tim’s approach too.

“Oh, is that your boys?” she asks, glee entering her voice, and Jon’s heart does something truly worrying in his chest.

“Don’t call them that, oh my God, Georgie, please don’t be weird.” But it’s too late to make her promise, Tim is already in hearing distance, calling his name. The glint in Georgie’s eyes tells Jon all he needs to know. He turns to Tim, facing his doom head on.

“Hey, Tim, Martin. Didn’t expect to see you two here,” he greets the two men now standing there with their winter jackets undone. Martin’s cheeks are pink with the sudden warmth, and Tim is sniffling a little, and they’re both utterly perfect and Jon’s heart is beating much faster than the situation truly warrants.

“Oh, you know how it is, looking to escape the ice age outside. But who are these beauties, didn’t think you had it in you,” Tim jokes, eyeing Georgie and Melanie curiously. Melanie is eyeing him right back, but Georgie is all but grinning. Jon sighs.

“This is Georgie, my best friend, and her girlfriend Melanie,” he introduces, pointing at the women in turn. Georgie offers Tim her hand, and Tim, the eternal flirt, leans down to kiss it. Georgie just laughs.

“Oh, a gentleman! Do you boys want to sit down? It’s crowded, and you might just be able to squeeze in with Jon,” she offers, waving at Jon to scooch over.

“That alright, Jon?” Tim asks, and Jon knows he can’t say no. First of all, it would be rude, second of all Georgie would murder him. So he lets Tim take his winter clothes and theirs to the coat rack, and he presses himself into the corner to make space for first Martin, then Tim on the bench.

The benches are spacious for two, but a little tight for three, which means that Jon’s thigh ends up touching Martin’s. It’s very distracting.

It isn’t until Tim sits down that he actually introduces himself. “Timothy Stoker, at you ladies’ service!” Then he elbows Martin, who jolts and mumbles a nervous introduction as well.

Before anything else can be said, Tim continues talking. “Say, not to be too forward, but you couldn’t be the Georgie that Jon used to date, could you?” Georgie gives Jon an inquisitive look, but nods.

“That’s me. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I’m just curious how you did it. Bring him flowers? Recite Shakespeare? Did you have to formally request courtship?” Tim is teasing, Jon knows, but the questions still bring uncomfortable heat to his cheeks.

Georgie chuckles. “Nothing like that, no. He didn’t always use to act and dress like his grandmother, you know.”

Tim oohs, but Jon interjects. “Excuse you, my grandmother was perfectly stylish, thank you very much.” Georgie acquiesces with a tilt of her head. She had met Jon’s grandmother a few times. They had gotten along quite well, actually.

“But tell me, what did our good Jon use to belike in university? Don’t tell me he was  _ cool _ ?” Tim needles, and Jon shoots him a dark look. Georgie leans forwards conspiratorially.

“Well, for one, he used to wear his hair in a ponytail, to show off his piercings. Have you ever seen those? They’re still there, I’ve checked!” she starts, and the looks on Tim and Martin’s faces turn incredulous.

“Then, well, there were the ripped jeans, and the band T-Shirts. He never used to wear his glasses, only contacts.” Tim makes a ‘huh’ noise. Jon would like to fuse with the seating now.

“Of course, otherwise no one would have properly appreciated the eyeliner,” Georgie finishes. Tim’s eyebrows have by now reached his hairline, and Martin seems to have totally forgotten to be nervous in his shock, openly staring at Jon. But Jon is rallying. 

“Now, if I remember this correctly, the eyeliner was  _ your _ idea, Georgie. And I only ever wore it on stage, so let’s not give them false ideas.”

“On stage?!” Comes a chorus from not just Tim and Martin, but Melanie as well. Jon only realises what he said upon reflection and starts wishing he could sink through the bench, the floor, the people downstairs and straight into the ground. He frantically shakes his head at Georgie but it’s too late, she’s already pulling out her phone.

“Oh yes! I almost forgot, there must be videos of the old band online! Thanks for reminding me, Jon,” she says as she frantically types into what Jon assumes is YouTube.

Not 20 seconds later, familiar chords sound quietly out of her tinny phone speakers, and Jon truly gives up on keeping the image he has cultivated in the archives alive. 


	5. Chapter 4 - "Burning Questions"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension in the office grows, until something ignites.

Tim keeps texting Jon screenshots and pictures from old performances with a lot of question marks in the captions. He’s found some footage that even Jon hasn’t seen before, it’s kind of impressive. Jon doesn’t know how to reply.

It’s not like he’s _embarrassed_ that he used to be punk-adjacent. Sure, the band was kind of pretentious, but he liked that look. Still likes it, really. He may have told Georgie that he only keeps his piercings open for the money’s sake, but really, he still likes how they look. If he weren’t so anxious to keep his job, he would love to keep the jewellery in not just on the weekends, but he has read company policy and knows how strictly Elias enforces the dress code. It just isn’t worth the scolding. 

The worst part of that whole accidental meeting at the café came, however, by the end. They had been about to leave, when Tim had asked, or, well, kind of jokingly demanded Georgie’s phone number. She hadn’t argued, in fact she had given it to him gladly, and now she _refuses to tell Jon what they talk about_.

It drives him absolutely nuts, especially with the way he has caught Tim and Martin looking at him recently. It’s not always, they’re perfectly normal most of the time, but then Jon will turn around to put away a statement he’s finished with and catch Tim’s eyes on him, looking as if he’s trying to puzzle out some riddle.

Or he’ll glance up when Martin is bringing him a new cup of tea and find a crinkle in his eyebrow, a twist in his mouth that didn’t use to be there.

Jon tries to write it off as confusion, as disapproval of his former lifestyle, but that doesn’t sound likely. He has seen Tim wear a choker to an office party at least once before, and Martin wears way too many pastels to not have _some_ alternative style in his inspirations.

He grows more and more tense the longer this strange mood lingers in the archives, right up until one day, Sasha walks in with an angry red burn all over her left palm, still smelling faintly of scorched flesh.

* * *

They take Sasha to A&E. Technically, all three of them wouldn’t have needed to go with her, but realistically none of them had wanted to stay behind at the Institute.

Sasha doesn’t speak much on the way there, but Jon thinks that may just be shock. She stares out of the taxi’s window as if in a trance, holding her palm up so it won’t touch anything, and doesn’t speak. She doesn’t speak up except to give her name to the nurses when they arrive, doesn’t say anything while they sit in the waiting room, and when she is taken away for treatment, she barely even waves at the three of them.

Jon, Tim and Martin agree to all just go home. They are all some version of frazzled, and none of them are likely to get any work done anymore. They also figure that Sasha probably won’t be mad about it.

All of them sleep badly that night.

Sasha is waiting for them in the main room of the archives the next morning. Her hand is wrapped in thick gauze and she holds it gingerly, like she’s not quite sure what to do with it. There are large bags underneath her eyes, and her hair is more dishevelled than any of them have ever seen it; Sasha isn’t exactly prim, but she does keep an orderly appearance.

Jon is the last to come in that day, finding Martin and Tim already sat with her at the centre table, having pulled their chairs around to face it, waiting silently. Tim is eyeing Sasha with a worried frown, Martin is looking down at his wringing hands and Sasha is staring at the tabletop. The air is oppressive, and Jon is about to say- something, anything really, but Sasha gestures for him to sit as well.

Jon cautiously puts his bag down and gets his chair, keeping his eyes on Sasha. She had looked up at him briefly when he had entered, but now she is back to tracing the fake wood pattern. Is it just the light, or are her irises more green than he remembers them being?

He sits down gingerly, leaning forward, and gives all of them an expectant frown.

“What’s this then?” he asks carefully, unsure of breaking the silence.

Tim and Martin both give him shrugs of equal confusion. They don’t seem to know any more than him.

“I need to talk to you three,” Sasha’s voice is scratchy but full of steel. She doesn’t look up at them as she speaks.

Tim opens his mouth to ask a question, but she holds up her uninjured hand to silence him.

“I’ve tried to keep you guys away from this as much as possible. Gertrude said it might not do anything, but I had to try,” she starts, then stops again. She glances at each one of them for only a second, then immediately fixes her eyes back on the table. Jon is certain that they didn’t used to be this green, it’s almost like they’re glowing now. Sasha takes a deep breath.

“Where should I- Well, I guess the most important thing. You guys know the stuff we investigate, all the wild stories and made up bullshit? Well, most of it _is_ made up. But some of it…” she trails off, teeth gnawing at her lower lip.

“Some of it’s real,” she finishes quietly.

Jon, Martin and Tim all sit back in unison.

Uncharacteristically, it is Martin who speaks up first. “Sasha…” he begins, then doesn’t seem to know how to go on.

She doesn’t let him flounder for long. “I know how this sounds, guys. But I’m serious. There’s… It’s- It’s kind of complicated, but there are Things out there-,” she breaks off, reaching up to rub her eyes. She doesn’t let her hand drop again though, pushing on her eyes as if trying to forcibly keep them closed.

Tim is the one to reach out and gently pull her hand away. “Start at the beginning?” he prompts. Sasha squeezes his hand before taking it back. Her eyes remain closed.

“When I joined the Archives, I was Gertrude’s first and only assistant in years. All the others… disappeared, apparently, and she was getting on, so she wanted to train up a replacement, just in case. She never said _what_ case though,” she starts again, this time much more collected.

The three of them exchange glances. None of them had ever met Gertrude Robinson, but all of them were intimately familiar with her non-existent filing system. They would sometimes joke about old age and leaving the elderly unsupervised, when the inconvenience of it all got to them.

“At first, I just helped her record statements. I didn’t know it back then, but she was deliberately giving me the… realer ones, the ones that had actually happened and weren’t just hallucinations or pranks, seeing if I would figure it out. And after a while, I- I did.” Sasha stops here to take another big breath.

“There are things- entities, gods, whatever you want to call them, out there, that feed on people’s fear and can influence our world to certain extend.”

Jon wants to argue, but then he remembers a statement he had followed up a few months ago, about an insomniac lady who had started hallucinating a man with long blonde hair laughing at her. And how a man just like that had appeared in other statements, too. That one realtor lady, what was her name, Helen something?, had mentioned a person like that, too. He hadn’t been able to locate either of them, both seeming to have vanished off the face of the earth entirely. He has to wonder, were they eaten?

Martin and Tim both are wearing expressions that mirror Jon’s emotions. It is a lot to take in, but Sasha isn’t finished yet.

“There’s an ongoing debate about this, but generally people tend to split them into 14 general fears. Stuff like heights, the dark, death, and so on. Not everything is clearly just the one Entity, though.”

“And what, they’re like Gods? Sasha, I do have to tell you, my good Christian upbringing doesn’t really allow for this,” Tim interjects. Jon thinks he might be trying to make a joke, but if so, it falls flat before it even leaves his mouth. Sasha’s lips twist.

“Not… they aren’t… They’re more like semi-sentient concepts, if you ask me? But some of them do have followers. There’s the Cult of the Lightless Flame, though they took a bit of a hit lately. They worship pain and loss, and they’re all kind of pyromaniacs,” she motions to her injured hand and Jon suddenly feels a little sick. Martin squeaks, but Jon isn’t sure if it is at the conversation in general or this specific tidbit. A grave silence settles over the archives.

“Why are you telling us this, Sasha?” Jon finally asks. It has been nagging at him since she started talking. Why tell them now?

Sasha heaves a deep sigh.

“Because I can’t keep protecting you from it, and if you are going to be in danger of meeting some of these… followers, then I want you to be warned,” she says. Then her brow wrinkles and she adds, “There’s also something else, but- I won’t tell you here. He’s probably watching this.”

Stunned silence greets that pronouncement. Then Tim snorts.

“Well that’s not ominous or concerning at all, thank you, boss lady!” he exclaims, and the entire table seems to loosen up a little. The oppressive mood lifts seems to lift a little, despite everything.

Martin finally speaks up again. “Is there somewhere else we could go so you could tell us?” he asks gently, freckled brows still pulled into a frown. He’s watching Sasha’s every move, and Jon realises that she has been increasingly scrunching up her face in what seems to be an effort to keep her eyes pressed close. She shakes her head, reaching up to rub at her lids again.

“There- I- Yes, there is, but- I need-“ She is mumbling, still shaking her head. Martin reaches out and carefully takes her hand away once more, holding it in his.

“What do you need, Sasha?” he prompts her, squeezing her uninjured palm gently.

Sasha’s eyes burst open, and they’re definitely glowing now, entire eyeballs emitting a greenish glow so strong that Jon has to look away. She turns to him.

**“Tell me the reason you are scared of spiders.”**

Her voice sounds strange, and her gaze is unrelenting and piercing. Her hand has trapped Martin’s where he was holding it, his other flailing in what might be pain or could just be panic, and Tim is standing but clearly unsure what to do.

Jon doesn’t mean to answer, doesn’t want to tell her or anyone ever about Mr Spider and that boy it took, but the words come streaming out anyways. He tries to stop them, to clench his mouth shut, to get up, run away, anything, but he cannot do anything but watch and listen as his childhood trauma spills from his lips.

It’s horrible, reliving all of this, having his choice stripped from him and being forced to reveal one of his darkest memories. Jon is terrified, his mind panicking while his body betrays him. He can’t look away from Sasha, but in the corners of his vision he can see Tim, frozen as if unable to move and Martin, expression pained and a little sick.

Sasha doesn’t blink a single time until he is finished. Jon ends his tale of how spindly legs pulled the door closed behind his former bully, and finally, finally, his mouth is his again.

Jon wants to get up, maybe go throw up, but instead he just slumps in on himself. He feels very cold suddenly. He feels exposed. His arms come up without thought to wrap around himself, cradling his chest where his heart beats wildly. 

Sasha blinks, once, twice, then the glow disappears, and her brows draw together in shocked guilt. She lets go of Martin’s hand, jumping up and going to kneel by Jon’s side.

“Oh god, Jon, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to, I promise,” she starts babbling, hands hovering frantically, unsure if touch would be welcome.

Martin gets up, too, but he doesn’t approach Jon. Instead, he goes into the kitchen and soon the kettle is whistling.

Tim falls back into his seat, staring at Sasha. She keeps fussing over Jon for a while, but soon realises that he isn’t responding at all and lets her hands drop, a helpless expression on her face.

“You’re a part of it, aren’t you?” he asks, voice icy and emotionless. Sasha looks over at him, but he doesn’t meet her eyes.

“I- Yes. It’s what I was trying to say. Me, this whole place, they’re a kind of extension of one of the Fears,” she explains with a small voice. Martin comes back and sets a tea in front of Jon, still steaming. He starts gently coaxing his arms from around him, and soon Jon is clutching the mug instead. It seems to help, as his eyes regain some focus.

Tim meets Sasha’s eyes. His gaze is sharp, hurt. “Which one?” he asks, and Sasha doesn’t pretend not to understand.

“They call it the Ceaseless Watcher. It, well, it watches? It represents the fear of being exposed, of being observed or followed, of having someone know you without care for your consent. It’s also sometimes just called the Eye.” She breaks the eye contact and instead looks down at her hands.

Jon takes a deep breath and shakes himself. Martin is standing by his side, a gentle hand on shoulder, thumb stroking in circles, but he lets go when Jon sits up straighter.

“T-thank you, Martin.” Jon’s voice is barely a whisper, scratchy and weak, but he clears his throat and his next words are better. “That was very unpleasant.”

Sasha flinches, getting up from the floor and sitting back down on her chair. Martin sits too, but not before pulling his chair a little closer to Jon’s side of the table.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she says again. “Being the Archivist here, it comes with certain- powers. But it also comes with some drawbacks. When I am hurt or tired, I get this urge to- to feed I guess, on people’s fear. Gertrude warned me of using the powers too much because it tires me out more. Give and take, I guess,” she clenches and unclenches her uninjured hand on the table. Then she reaches for the other one, tapping her palm through the gauze. She doesn’t flinch, but her face only gets tighter.

Silence settles, more oppressive than ever.

After a long while of staring at his slowly cooling tea, Jon clears his throat again.

“We can’t quit, can we?” he asks. Tim startles visibly, Sasha flinches, and Martin frowns. They all think about it for a moment, both Martin and Tim opening their mouths as if to try, then come to the same conclusion that Jon had arrived at. They can’t say it. Sasha shakes her head, looking even more guilty, lips pressed together. Jon sighs.

“I think I would like to take the day off,” he says. Nobody argues. Jon doesn’t get up yet, though.

Tim is the next one to speak up.

“If we can’t quit, then we also can’t be fired, can we? That wouldn’t make any sense, if the guys upstairs want to keep us in the position,” he points out. It’s Sasha’s turn to frown thoughtfully.

“I- guess so?” she offers. “I certainly don’t think a- I don’t know, a dress code violation? - would get you the boot, no.”

A sharp-edged smile grows on Tim’s face.

“Tim,” Sasha says in a warning tone.

“Boss?” he asks, sardonic. “If this is how it is, at least let me have some fun with it, yeah?” Sasha doesn’t argue it further.

They all end up taking another day off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did quite a bit of editing post-beta on this, and I'm still not super happy with it. But I'm not rewriting anything in this until maybe one day after it's all finished, so here it is anyways.  
> Thank you everyone who commented, I cherish every word, and yes, that includes emojis.  
>   
> EDIT: Someone pointed out that I used a shitty phrase in The Other Woman! Thank you to that person, I edited it out. Honestly, I don't know what hit me there, but I'm extremely sorry. Everyone go sign [some petitions](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/) and consider donating to current issues! I'm trying to write an interesting, deliberately inclusive fanfic here, so feel free to criticise me on these things.


	6. Chapter 5 - "A Piercing Stare"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introspection and Tunnels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added some tags. Now, my friends tell me that 12k doesn't qualify as slow burn yet, but they have failed to consider that I fully expect to write a solid 70k+ of this before they finally get their shit together. Just so yall know what you're settling in for- this isn't gonna be quick.  
> Since we're on the topic; so far, this fic hasn't been all that heavy, but that may change. My goal isn't to be depressing or scary, but I'm also writing in the canon universe. If I put in anything particularly upsetting, I'm going to put a content warning in the notes, but let me know if you notice anything that you think requires it.

Jon had gone straight to bed after returning home. Since it had only been mid-morning though, he awakens again by mid-afternoon. He clambers out from where he had buried himself in sheets and pillows, day clothes uncomfortable from sleep, and heads to the bathroom.

Business done, he stands in front of his mirror, looking himself in the eye, trying to recognize himself. He hadn’t depersonalized this badly since his transition, but then again, he  _ had _ just dredged up maybe the most traumatizing event of his childhood.

Some of Jon’s hair has escaped its usual braid, and as he tucks the dark strands behind his ear, his eyes catch on the small holes that dot the shell. It reminds him of what had been said earlier. If dress code violations can’t get him fired, then maybe…

The decision is made before he can talk himself out of it. Jon goes to get the box he keeps all his piercing jewellery in from his bedroom, then pulls his hair back in a ponytail.

It’s longer now than it was even in university; he hasn’t seen the need to cut it, the braid holding it back just fine. Some of the baby hairs in the front are starting to come in grey already. They stand out silver against the dark rest, normally hidden by the looser fall of his hair, and Jon frowns at them.

His grandmother had been fully grey by the time he had come to live with her as a child, but his father had also been greying in many of the pictures Jon has of the man. He can’t have been more than 40 in those, so this must be his legacy. 

Everyone used to tell him that he was the spitting image of his mother, her “exotic look” - wankers - overpowering his father’s english heritage. Jon used to look for his father in the mirror for a long time. Going out with his grandmother would earn them strange looks in their predominantly white neighbourhood, not to mention looking like his mother meant looking like a  _ girl _ . It had made for an- interesting childhood, to say the least. No wonder he had ended up an angry punk by the end of high school. 

He starts the laborious task of putting his simple black studs in. There are many, and the balls are tiny and fiddly, but the motions are familiar. The last one in his ears is the industrial piercing in his right ear, the biggest holes and hardest to hide. It goes in easily, and then Jon is left to consider the two circular barbells left in the plastic bag.

He hasn’t put his lip piercings back in in ages. They were an impulse decision, something he did when Georgie was getting her septum. She has since taken that out, says it bothered her too much during allergy season. Jon had planned to let the little symmetrical holes in his lower lip heal, or at least close up a little. They’re barely visible as-is, and he isn’t even sure if he could still get the jewellery through.

A little Vaseline and some careful pressure later, he finds out that the answer is yes, he  _ can _ still get them in.

He looks at himself in the mirror again, this time with dozens of little balls of black metal sticking out of his ears and face and recognizes himself again. That’s his face, those are the marks he lived through. He remembers the pain that each piercing caused, the little annoyances while healing, can point each one out without touching, just like he can chronicle every acne scar. 

Jon fidgets at one of the barbells in his lip. It clicks against his teeth lightly, and that shouldn’t be as comforting as it is. The clicking used to annoy Georgie when they were studying together, but it’s a habit he never broke.

Maybe he’ll leave them in again. It certainly seems like he can use all the comfort he can get from now on.

* * *

Tim comes in late to work the next morning on the principle that, if he can’t leave for good, he may as well spend as little time in the cursed place as possible. He is wearing jeans and a bright pink tank top out of pure spite; he had gotten tired of his never-ending cycle of business-y patterned shirts and neutral-toned trousers years ago.

He enters the archives and at first glance, everything looks deceptively the same as when he had come in yesterday. But when Tim looks closer, it becomes clear that things are different. Sasha’s office door is open, for one; it had remained firmly closed for most of Tim’s time as an archival assistant. He had assumed that Sasha just liked to work in silence. Maybe he was wrong.

His compatriots both look a little different, too. Martin is even paler than usual, looking like he slept very badly, and he is wearing a hoodie that Tim has only seen before because he stole it from Martin’s closet to wear around his flat one weekend in January, when he had invited himself to stay over at Martin’s.

He knows it’s very soft, and that Martin doesn’t usually wear it out because it doesn’t feel work-appropriate to walk around in a top that proclaims to the world that ‘Knit Happens,’ underlined with two knitting needles. It makes Tim smile, even as he is concerned by what this says about Martin’s mental state.

Jon is wearing one of his regular work outfits but looking at him still makes Tim stop short. He has braided his hair in a tighter fashion than usual, and it shows off the many little black bars that go through his ears; not to mention the two on his lip that Tim has to tear his eyes away from as Jon fidgets with them. He’s focused on a statement, brows knit, and hasn’t noticed Tim come in yet. Tim allows himself another long look.

“’Morning, crew!” he finally greets, heading for his desk. “I see we’ve all decided to let our hair down a little.”

Both Jon and Martin startle and look up at him. He wonders what they were thinking when he didn’t come in at his usual time; did they worry? He feels a little guilty now.

Martin giggles nervously. “Y-yeah. F-felt a little pointless, worrying about pretences now.” Jon nods, adjusting his glasses and then brushing his ear self-consciously.

Tim is about to speak again, maybe try to lighten the mood a little, but the sound of a throat clearing from the entrance interrupts.

It’s Elias, standing in the doorway and eyeing them all disdainfully.

“Gentlemen,-“ he starts, but Sasha appears in the door to her office.

“Elias, how nice of you to stop by. Is there a problem?” She asks sweetly, fake smile dripping venom, and Tim thinks he sees their boss flinch away minutely. The corners of his mouth pull down.

“Archivist,” he greets coldly, “Not at all. I just thought I might come by and  _ see _ ,” he empathizes that last word, “how your assistants are adjusting to their new- allocation.”

Sasha takes a step out of the doorway, heel clacking on the stone floor.

“I’m certain that my assistants can handle it. You will learn of any problems quickly, I’m sure,” she is glaring now, looking bigger than she really is with her back ramrod straight and head held high. Tim admires the image she makes; Sasha made clear from day one that she isn’t interested, but he can still appreciate that she is quite beautiful.

There is a long tense silence as Sasha and Elias stare each other down across the archives. Then, Elias gives in with a sardonic smirk and tilt of the head, turning back around and striding out of the door he had come through.

All four of them stay stock still while his footsteps fade in the halls. Only when they can’t be heard anymore does Sasha lose the steel rod keeping her up, slumping to lean on a side table. Her assistants all let out a collective breath of relief, exchanging looks and watching silently as she rubs at her eyes, adjusts her glasses, fusses with her hair and then finally looks up.

* * *

Sasha startles a little when she finds three sharply concerned pairs of eyes on her. It’s not that she had forgotten that they were there, but she had expected them to avoid her, especially Jon, yet here they are, worrying over her. Tim looks a little accusatory, sure, and Jon has a skittish air about him that she isn’t used to from him, but they’re right there, waiting for her to collect herself and address them.

They’re still depending on her.

Sasha meets their eyes, chewing at her lip. When it looks like Martin might prompt her, she makes a choice.

“Come with me,” she requests, then turns to head back into her office. The noise of scraping chairs behind her tells her that her assistants are close behind.

Sasha gets the key from her desk and goes to unlock the hatch to the tunnels. Gertrude showed them to her not long before the incident. She can feel the three men watching her from the doorway, and motions for them to follow when she climbs down.

Tim is the last one down the hatch, and Sasha quietly asks him to close it, flashlight at the ready. He complies and joins them on the damp stones.

The flashlight casts all of them in stark white light, shadows stretching along the walls into the dark. Sasha sweeps her eyes over her assistants, then begins to speak.

“These tunnels are a kind of neutral space, though you can certainly still come to harm down here.” There is a scuttling sound from further down the tunnel, where the light doesn’t quite reach. Jon jumps a mile high and almost collides with Martin. Sasha watches his hand close on the sleeve of Martin’s hoodie and suppresses a smile.

“The point is that some fear powers don’t work quite as normal down here. Elias can’t see us,” she explains. 

Tim is frowning, looking around. “This is, what, the old Millbank prison complex? Didn’t that hack Robert Smirke build it?” he asks, and Sasha gives him a surprised look.

“Yeah. You know of Robert Smirke?” she returns, and Tim gives her a humourless smile.

“I do work here, Sash’. I’ve read some books and some of his notes, but he always seemed a little full of it ‘till now.”

Sasha has to concede that point.

“Smirke is the one who championed the list of 14. He was wrong about a lot of things, though. Balance will only get you so far,” she explains. Tim nods, so she moves on.

“Alright, I need you three to listen to me very closely right now,” she starts, and the three men straighten up, focusing on her.

“I’ve already told you about how the Institute is a sort of temple to the Eye. The man who had it built, Jonah Magnus, founded it for just that purpose. It collects fear, and the Archive is at the centre of that. Jonah has bigger goals than that, though. I don’t know how, but he has plans for some sort of ritual to bring on the apocalypse.”

Jon picks up on it immediately. “Sasha, Jonah Magnus died decades ago.” Sasha nods and waves her hand dismissively.

“His body died, sure,” she says and watches all three of them recoil. “He found a way to live on, though. If you look into Elias Bouchard, all you will find is records of some stoner with bougie parents. Then suddenly, he gets promoted almost instantly from secretary to head of the Institute and goes through a complete change in image.” Tim laughs, incredulous and hysterical.

“You can’t be serious!” he exclaims, and Sasha can see tears forming in his eyes. She doesn’t know what to do; but Martin does and goes to hug Tim. Jon and her stand around a little awkwardly, not looking at each other or the two of them as Tim sobs.

When he has mostly quieted down, Jon asks, “So Elias is dangerous?” Sasha meets his eyes and finds complicated emotions there. It’s not surprising; Elias had always been praising him. She sighs.

“He killed Gertrude Robinson,” she says, and Jon’s eyes grow wide as saucers.

“He-?” he begins but doesn’t finish the question. Sasha grimly nods.

“Shot her. I think- I think she figured something out, before, and finally became too dangerous to keep alive. Some of her tapes are gone.”

Jon hugs his arms around himself and goes to stand closer to where Martin and Tim have mostly separated, Tim rubbing at his red eyes.

Sasha scans all three of their faces and decides that this is enough for one day.

“Let’s go back upstairs and have some tea. Don’t talk about Elias or Jonah outside of these tunnels if you can help it.”

She leads them back up into the artificial lights of the archive. Martin makes them tea, and they all sit around the central table for a bit in silence.

Sasha finishes her tea, then scans their faces again. They’re looking a little better, more solid, and she can’t afford to go too easy on them even now.

“We’ve gotta get back to work,” she tells them. “There are more things to learn yet, things we are going to need to know if we want to figure this out.”

None of them look happy, but Martin takes their empty mugs away and then all of them return to their desks. It’s a strangely normal workday from there on out, as long as one ignored the sense of impending doom pressing down on all of them. 


	7. Chapter 6 - "The Heights of Stupidity"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Text conversations, my sense of dramatic irony, and falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-typical amounts of emotional distress and descriptions of falling from great heights in this one, folks. I hope you enjoy!

_Excerpts from text conversations between one Timothy Stoker and one Georgina Barker_

“Hi, this is Tim”

“Hi Tim, how’s it going?”

“Pretty good, just got home. How about you?”

“I’m good too, having dinner in”

“Nice, what’cha having?”

“Thai, Melanie’s aunt and uncle run a shop that’s on the way”

“She tells me it’s more authentic than the usual ‘Asian’ stuff”

“Nice, what’s it called? I might have to check it out 👀”

…

…

“Quick question, how many piercings does Jon have???”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“He isn’t answering my texts 😭”

“Lmao that doesn’t sound like him, have you been bothering him?”

“😶 Oop”

“…”

“😐”

…

…

“It’s 17 iirc”

“?”

“Piercings”

“Jon has 17 piercings I think”

“or 16, depending on if you count an industrial piercing as one”

“but it’s two holes, so”

“Whoa”

“Thanks”

“It’s nothing”

“Now, when are you going to confess?”

“ajdhaksj???? I haave no idea what you’re talking about??”

“Sure.”

…

…

“Wait, do you mean he likes me back????”

“that’s for me to know and for you to find out innit 😘”

“Georgieeeee”

“Tiiiiiiiim”

“Also, out of curiosity, are you and Martin dating or??”

“… it’s complicated”

“Oh?”

“Yeah”

“Alright, keep your secrets pretty boy”

“Look at how cute the Admiral is being!”

(picture of a cat snuggling up to a grinning Melanie)

…

…

“Wait, does Jon have lip piercings????”

“I’m looking at this video and it looks like he has snake bites????”

(youtube link)

“Lmao maybe”

“You’re so cruel to me”

“If I could confess to him when he was 5’7 of punk aesthetic and bad temper, you can do it now that he looks like a hipster librarian”

“That feels unfair for reasons I can’t name”

…

…

“Confessing to Jon would be unfair to Martin, he likes him too.”

“And I like Martin too much to do that to him”

“Also I’m still not certain confessing would even lead anywhere. I didn’t even think Jon dated at all until he mentioned you”

“That IS complicated”

“You haven’t talked to Martin about any of this, have you?”

“Nnnoooo?”

“Feels weird to bring up, we only started fooling around to get over Jon”

“😐”

“Men”

“Look, even the Admiral is judging you”

(picture of a cat with a grumpy face and squinting to the left of the camera)

“He’s very cute but I still resent that”

“Tough shit lover boy”

“Talk to Martin you hot mess”

_Excerpts end_

* * *

  
  


It feels silly, but that last text conversation with Georgie continues to weigh on Tim’s mind even after the whole mess with Sasha kicks off. It mixes in with the fear and grief that are at the forefront of his mind, adding to the chaos that has been his thoughts since Sasha revealed her and the Institute’s involvement in the big evils of this world.

He’s guilty that he’s even thinking about romance when his little brother is dead. He’s tired of the confusion and anxiety about Jon’s feelings, about his relationship with Martin. He’s scared.

It makes him irritable, and that only makes it worse. He has snapped at Martin twice within as many days over retrospectively minor mistakes. Jon, in contrast, has grown even quieter, only ever speaking when prompted but always, always watching any interactions, frown a permanent fixture on his face, teeth fidgeting with his lip piercings.

That drives Tim mad, too. It’s entirely unfair, how cute Tim finds the habit, and he’s caught Martin staring at it too.

Martin has been surprisingly steady, really. Sure, he flinches and fumbles and stutters, but no more than usual. He’s even taken Tim’s outbursts relatively well, only giving him unhappy looks and quiet apologies in return, and Tim feels like such a dick.

He’s just so done with it, all of it. Something has to give, and it may just end up being his patience.

* * *

In the end, it isn’t Tim who breaks first. It’s Jon, and he doesn’t break in any direction that Tim had been thinking of.

Sasha is out, doing… well, she didn’t say, and they didn’t ask. Tim assumes it’s important, and spooky.

The three of them are mostly working in silence, checking statements as usual. Jon has been more fidgety than usual, emitting an almost rhythmic clicking sound from where he’s toying with his lip rings and bouncing his legs. It’s mildly distracting, so Tim has been keeping a mostly unintentional eye on him. He’s spotted Martin doing the same.

Finally, Jon puts down the statement, sits up, looks around, then gets up and checks Sasha’s office. She left the door open, something she’s been doing more often when she’s out, just in case they need anything from it. It means that Jon can easily walk in, open her desk cupboard and take out the key to the tunnels. 

He comes back with it in his hand, then stands there in the office door silently, considering them anxiously.

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a while, when it becomes clear that Jon is struggling with something. Jon opens his mouth to respond, then grimaces and gestures behind him.

“You wanna talk in the tunnels?” Tim interprets out loud, and Jon nods. Martin and him exchange a concerned look, but get up and follow.

Martin is the last one down this time, and he closes the trapdoor behind them. Oppressive darkness falls.

“Anybody brought a flashlight?” Tim asks into the void. A beat of silence follows in which he is almost afraid that they’re gone, that he’s alone down here in the darkness, then Jon clears his throat.

“No, sorry, I forgot…”

Tim sighs partly in relief and partly in exasperation and pulls out his phone. He turns on the flashlight function and startles a little at the ghastly pallor it casts upon his co-workers’ faces.

“There. Don’t know how long this will last though, my phone battery is shit.”

Both of the others murmur their thanks, then silence falls again. Jon bites his piercing, then sighs.

“Sorry for bringing you down here, I just… wanted to hear what the two of you thought about- you know, all the stuff that Sasha has told us.”

It’s what Tim expected, but something doesn’t quite add up.

“But why down here? It’s not like Elias doesn’t know that we know, he’s made that quite obvious,” he asks. Jon grimaces.

“I just thought- if Elias can’t see us down here, then Sasha probably can’t either, right?” he rushes out. Tim blinks once, then twice.

“Wait. Run that by me again please.” Is Jon implying…?

“I just… Can we even trust her? It’s not that I don’t believe that she’s trying her best but- you saw what she did. She- she fed on me! I don’t know if I can trust some sort of- of monster!” Jon is hugging his arms around himself, shaking, and Tim feels the strong urge to go give him a hug. He doesn’t, though, and for once not even Martin approaches him.

“Jon…” he starts instead, then doesn’t continue.

“Does it matter?” Tim asks, and both of them turn to him with startled looks. “Listen, we’re stuck at the Institute, right? We can’t quit! And I don’t know about you guys, but I’d rather take my chances with Sasha rather than some body-hopping creep from the 1800s.”

He can see Martin’s lips twitch, but Jon is frowning.

“But-“ Jon starts, and Tim cuts him off.

“Listen, Jon. I’m not particularly stoked about this either! I came to the Institute for a reason, you know, and now it turns out I walked right into the lion’s den? But there’s nothing to be done! I can’t die yet, and that seems to be the only way to escape this nightmare, I have- I have stuff I still want to do.”

Silence falls. Tim is breathing hard, only now realising that he had started shouting. His voice is echoing weirdly down the tunnels, making him wonder how far they really go. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“Sorry for shouting,” he mumbles, embarrassed now. Martin makes a vague sound of forgiveness, and Jon shakes his head in dismissal.

“It’s ok, we’re all tense. Though- what did you say, you weren’t _stoked_ -“ he begins, a little grin forming. Tim groans loudly.

“That’s such a bad pun, Jon!” he exclaims, but he’s grinning too, a little giddy after the high emotions, and Martin is giggling beside them, cute little snorts escaping him.

As if sensing that the tense atmosphere has lifted, Tim’s phone flashlight starts sputtering. It had been dimming imperceptibly for a while now, until it was barely more than a glow. The three of them startle and rush back up the stairs, not wanting to be caught by the dark again.

* * *

Just as the three of them are returning to their desks, Sasha stumbles in. This on its own is so uncharacteristic that Martin is immediately on his feet again, rushing over to help support her.

She grabs for him the moment he comes near but almost misses. He carefully guides her over to a chair, where she sits down heavily, swaying a little.

Sasha’s eyes are dilated to show almost no iris, focusing on nothing. Her breathing is uneven and almost as shaky as her legs had been, and her hair is windswept; strange, Martin doesn’t remember any wind when he came in. He wants to go make her some tea, but her hands are shaking so hard that he fears she would drop the mug.

Tim is by their side now, holding out a bottle of water instead. Martin nods and accepts it, before addressing Sasha.

“Sasha? Can you hear me?” he tries carefully, gripping her shoulder to help ground her. She doesn’t flinch away, and after a long moment she even nods jerkily.

“I have some water for you. Do you think you can drink?” Again, she nods, a little more smoothly, and holds out her open hand in his general direction. 

Martin unscrews the cap, then hands it to her, warning her, “It’s open.”

He watches with some worry as she slowly brings it to her mouth, but she doesn’t miss too much. A few drops escape by the side of her mouth, but then she drinks deeply.

She empties the whole bottle, then sets it down and takes a few deep breaths. Her eyes are starting to focus again, and she shakes her head as if to make her thoughts fall back into their places.

All three of them are crowded around her now, worried and confused. Martin goes to pull up a chair, and the other two follow his lead.

“Sasha, what happened?” he asks. Sarah goes to answer, but her voice doesn’t come. She clears her throat and tries again.

“I went looking for someone. Mike Crew,” she starts, her voice hoarse as if from shouting – or screaming. Tim seems to recognise the name, his face drawing together with an unpleasant realisation.

“It was fine, at first. He even offered me tea. But then I- I Asked some questions, you know, the way I do,” Jon flinches a little and Martin grimaces, “and he took exception to that. He made me fall.”

“He threw you off something?!” Tim interjects, horrified, but Sasha shakes her head.

“Not really. He just- it was some sort of illusion, I was sitting right there but I was also falling- always falling, and the wind, and-“ There are tears in her eyes now, and Martin goes to grab her hand on instinct.

“It’s okay, Sasha, you don’t have to say any more,” he reassures her, and she gives him a wobbly smile.

Martin sees Jon and Tim exchange some sort of look over the table, then Tim leans forward.

“Did he tell you anything interesting?”

Sasha frowns, trying to remember.

“Nothing… conclusive, no. He was marked by the Spiral as a child but managed to escape it for the Vast using a book,” she finally answers. Tim nods slowly.

“Ex Altiora?” he checks, and Sasha nods.

“I’m sorry, could you two explain what you’re talking about? Spiral? Vast? Ex Altiora?” Jon interrupts them, an annoyed expression on his face.

“You guys really need to look up Smirke’s list of 14. The Spiral, also called the Twisting Deceit, is the Fear that has to do with going crazy. It lies, messes with your senses, warps your perception until you can’t trust anything, not even yourself. The Vast is much simpler: Falling. Heights, big open spaces, anything that makes you feel that vertigo, that’s the Vast,” Tim jumps in to explain, only to earn stunned looks from the rest of the table.

“What? I told you I had read his stuff,” he defends himself, a slight blush forming on his tan cheeks.

The small smile on Sasha’s face reassures Martin a lot. She seems to be mostly back on her own feet.

“What Tim said,” she tells them. “I had him researching some statements that related to Mike before. He used a book, Ex Altiora, to seal the avatar of the Spiral that had been hunting him and instead let his being be consumed by the Vast by jumping off a bell tower. I would have thought him gone for good, but we have a statement of him stealing a man for the Vast from the Tour Montparnasse in Paris.”

“And you just went to go have a chat with the guy?!” Martin exclaims, then immediately sinks back into himself, regretting the outburst. Sasha grimaces.

“I… admit, it wasn’t the most well-thought-out plan I have ever had,” she concedes. All eyes land on her hand, and she grimaces harder.

A beat of awkward silence; “But he let you go?” Jon finally asks. Sasha nods.

“He- well, he wasn’t sure he’d let me land safely at first, but it seems telling me his story was somehow freeing or something? Either way, he let me stumble out of there. No idea how I got back here, to be honest. Maybe-“ she stops herself and shakes her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m back here, and I’m safe, well, as safe as it gets.”

All three of them nod hesitantly. Once again, silence descends. This time, it lingers. Jon is the one to break it, again, by getting up, chair scraping. It startles Martin badly, who had been keeping a careful eye on Sasha’s eyes in case the mental strain of the Fall had made her expend too much energy. She seems fine, but, well, Martin doesn’t really feel like regurgitating any childhood trauma today.

“I’ve got research to finish up,” Jon tells them, returning to his desk again. That breaks them out of their shock, all of them also getting up. Sasha returns to her office and closes the door, something she really only does anymore when she’s reading statements.

Tim lets himself fall onto his chair and leans back on it. “I wonder if we’re going to have to get used to her walking in here with a new injury once a month,” he says into the silence.

Martin frowns at him. “Let’s hope not,” he admonishes gently, and Tim gives him an unapologetic shrug.

“Let’s hope she does come back,” Jon’s quiet voice interrupts their stare-down. He isn’t looking at either of them, but he’s frowning and playing with his piercing again. Martin shudders and nods.

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. His expression is complicated.


	8. Chapter 7 - "Fresh Air"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Admiral gets all the pets he deserves, and the stakes rise.

Georgie was the one who had dragged Jon out, claiming he was getting way too pale. He had agreed with only mild complaints, letting himself be pulled away from the Admiral and a documentary on ancient burial rites he had seen before anyways.

They had met up for the first time since the whole revelation at work, and Georgie was delighted to see his old piercings back in. He had worn the set of hoops that she had gotten him for his birthday once upon a time instead of his usual studs. It was worth all the fiddling for the smile she gave him.

Jon requested they stay in this time, wanting to relax, but after about an hour of him sitting on her couch, petting the Admiral and brooding, Georgie had enough of that.

“Just for a walk around the block, come on, Jon. You can’t tell me you’ve gotten much fresh air lately!” she wheedled, and he had to admit that she was right.

So they went out, giving the Admiral maybe a few more goodbye pets than totally necessary for a short walk, and meandered down the streets in the early evening sunshine. It was March, a little chilly still, but spring taking hold.

Ten minutes later they found a moderately clean park bench to take a short rest on.

“So what’s been up other than the things you won’t tell me about? Anything new happen in your love life?” Georgie asks, and Jon grimaces, shaking his head. She figured out very quickly that  _ something _ had happened, but she agreed not to push.

Georgie sighs and nudges him with her shoulder. He nudges her back, and they sit there in comfortable silence for a while.

Suddenly, Jon feels Georgie go tense beside him.

He turns to her, but she is staring intently at something down the road. He follows her gaze and finds a- well, Jon assumes it’s a man. It’s a little hard to tell at first glance, with the long locs and the lipstick, but overall he gives that impression.

More importantly, he’s looking back. He’s frowning, actually, dark skin pulling into frown lines, and examining Jon and Georgie like he isn’t sure what to make of them.

Then he starts walking over slowly, and Jon grabs Georgie’s arm to catch her attention.

“Do you know him?” he hisses, and she shakes her head.

“No, but… I don’t know how to explain it-“ she cuts herself off because the stranger has stepped up to their bench.

He and Georgie stare each other down for a long moment, then the stranger sighs.

“Hi. I’m Oliver,” he says. His voice is pleasant, quiet and deep, and there is hardly any hostility in it or his mannerisms. It cuts a sharp contrast to Georgie, who is a blink away from glaring and so tense that her arm is like stone under Jon’s hand.

When Georgie doesn’t react, Oliver turns to Jon with a raised eyebrow.

“Jon,” he answers, then shrugs. Oliver reaches up to rub at his eyes.

“Telling you this is unlikely to help, Jon, but you’re going to get blown to bits in a month or so,” Oliver says, completely stunning Jon out of his train of thought.

“And this was always going to happen,” Georgie asks him icily, “or is that something that you made happen?” Oliver gives her another long look.

“I don’t make anyone die, Georgina Barker. I had nothing to do with what happened to you, either,” he answers her at last. Georgie snorts beside Jon, who is slowly coming out of his shellshock.

“You’re-“ he starts, but his voice abandons him and he has to clear his throat.

“- with the End, yes. Terminus. Whatever you wanna call it,” Oliver finishes for him. The casualness of the words makes Jon flinch back into his seat a little.

“There’s actually a statement of mine somewhere in your Archives, you know. Under a fake name, of course, but I tried to warn your last Archivist. Didn’t work out, or so I’ve heard,” he continues, and Jon kind of wishes he would stop talking.

“Stop it!” Georgie exclaims beside him, startling Jon badly. He realises belatedly that she’s shaking.

Oliver turns back to her, giving her anger a once-over.

“What happened to me-“ Georgie starts, but Oliver interrupts her.

“I can’t give back something that has already met its End, Georgie. You know full well that that isn’t how this works. I don’t know what you’re so mad about, in this world, your fate is a blessing!” he’s wearing a sardonic little grin, and Jon thinks Georgie may be a second away from mauling this Avatar of the primordial Fear God of Death in the street.

“I didn’t ask for it,” she hisses out in between clenched teeth. Oliver just shrugs.

“Most of us don’t, really. Sure, I chose to become what I am now, but I never asked for the dreams that pushed me into it.” He scuffs his boots on the cobbles beneath. “Jon here is gonna die for picking the wrong job. You chose to follow your friend into that building. That’s more choice than a lot of victims get, and yet you made it out alive, with only minimal losses. You should be happy!”

Georgie is gaping now, struck speechless.

Jon frowns. “Can you tell me any more about that semi-certain death you keep divining for me? You said I’d get blown up?” he asks, morbidly curious despite himself.

Oliver gives him a crooked grin. “Maybe I could, maybe I can’t, but I  _ won’t _ , and that’s the important part.” Jon almost wants to roll his eyes, the line is so cheesy.

“But you’re sure?” Georgie asks. She’s still tense but no longer spoiling for a fight and seems to have pushed whatever reaction she had been having away for the moment. Instead, she looks worried.

“Haven’t been wrong yet,” Oliver answers wryly.

“And there’s nothing to be done?” she questions more insistently, but Oliver only shrugs again.

“If there is a way to avoid the End, I haven’t found it yet. And even if there was - do you really expect me to tell you?”

He has a point. Georgie seems to agree; she slumps in her seat. She then twists her arm to grasp the hand that Jon still has on her and squeezes it, an unhappy twist to her mouth. Jon squeezes back, uncertain of who is comforting whom.

There is a moment of heavy silence, then Oliver clears his throat.

“Well, I’ll be on my way,” he says and turns to leave. Neither Jon nor Georgie try to stop him.

Oliver hesitates a few steps away, though. “If you do figure out a way around it, Jon-“ he starts, then hesitates. “Well, don’t forget to call and let me know.”

* * *

Jon and Georgie are quiet for the entire way back to her flat and take off their coats and boots in silence, until the sombre mood is broken by the Admiral. He must have heard their arrival, or somehow sensed their bad mood because he comes barrelling out of the living room, meowing loudly. Jon is already finished with his clothes, so he picks him up.

“Hello, sir, did you miss us?” he asks the cat in a high voice, and Georgie suppresses a smile. She steps out of her second boot and puts it on the rack, then pushes past Jon into the small hallway.

“Come on, you two, I want a beer. Are you staying for dinner, Jon?” she demands, already on her way to her fridge.

“Ah, if you don’t mind? I don’t really…” Jon trails off, as always too proud to admit to not wanting to be alone. Georgie doesn’t tease him for it, saint that she is, because she gets it; she doesn’t want him to leave yet either.

She gets out two beers, the same slightly more expensive brand of dark beer she has indulged in since university, and puts them on the counter. Jon has followed her, the Admiral still cradled in his arms like a furry baby, purring loudly. He doesn’t complain at having a beer assigned to him.

“I should take a picture of you right now and send it to Tim, that would be a hoot,” she throws over her shoulder while she rummages in her cupboards for the bottle opener.

“Please don’t, he already wouldn’t leave me alone about the piercings. He kept sending me screenshots of performances; I didn’t even know there were that many videos of us.” Jon sounds tired, and Georgie can relate. She feels wrung out, and she isn’t even the one who just had their imminent demise prophesied at them on a grimy park bench.

She finally spots her bottle opener – an ugly faded blueish thing that her mother had gotten from a Tory rally, of all things – and pops the caps off of their beers. Glancing at Jon in the doorway clutching at the Admiral like a lifeline, she sighs, takes both of their bottles and heads over to the couch. Jon follows behind her like a lost dog, and that alone is a sign of how rattled he truly is.

They sit down heavily on opposite ends of the couch, Georgie having put down the beer on the tea table, and stare into nothing for a while. The Admiral curls up in Jon’s lap and pretty much immediately starts dozing while he pets him absentmindedly.

“So,” Georgie says into the silence. “That happened, huh.” It’s not really a question, not really a statement, dwindling into nothing at the end.

“Yeah…” Jon responds quietly, and Georgie scoots over to press her shoulder to his. They wind up with their heads leaning against one another, pressing just enough to keep balance and offer comfort. Georgie is taller, so she winds up with his long hair pressed into her shaved side. It’s familiar, a little nostalgic, even though there used to be more cushion there.

“Georgie…” Jon starts, words barely above a murmur. “You don’t have to answer this, but why-?” he doesn’t finish the question, but she understands it well enough.

“It’s- a little hard to explain. This is a story from before we met.” 

Georgie tells him the whole story in fits and starts, about her friend and the corpse. Jon doesn’t rush her, doesn’t ask questions. She can feel him frowning at certain elements, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Once she is done, they are silent again. Neither of them has touched their beers, the bottles warming and condensation dripping down to form small puddles on her IKEA tea table.

Then Jon finally speaks up.

“Until recently, I had kind of hoped that all of the statements we deal with are totally made up. I… was wrong. There are things out there, Fear Gods or Entities or whatever, and the End - the thing that Oliver serves, the one that woman probably belonged to - it’s- one of the scariest, if you ask me.”

Georgie feels like she should be surprised, like maybe she should deny it or refuse to believe him, but she finds that she isn’t, not really.

“You’re more afraid of Death than spiders?” she asks, a weak attempt at teasing. Jon pulls his head back a little only to bonk their temples together. Georgie snorts, pulling away and instead going for her now lukewarm beer.

“Yeah,” Jon answers belatedly. Georgie gives him a surprised look; Jon’s fear of spiders is pretty much a phobia. He meets her eyes though, and there is something hollow in his gaze that she isn’t sure she likes.

“Death is scarier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may slow down, I'm going to be busier these next few weeks.


	9. Chapter 8 - "Mind Poison"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are not immune to Propaganda. (A public service announcement brought to you by the spider that is currently in your bedroom)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to save my ongoing chapter on a flash drive before I went to my parents, so this is the only update probably until Tuesday. I hope you enjoy!   
> TW: Mention of minor injuries, discussion of blood poisoning

Jon winds up sleeping on Georgie’s couch that night, with the Admiral curled up on his chest and a well-loved and familiar quilt that Georgie’s aunt had sent her from Ghana for her 18 th birthday draped over his day-clothes.

He is awoken at barely daybreak when the door to the flat is frantically unlocked from the outside.

Melanie bursts into the entryway, hair mussed, clothing rumpled, stained in places with a dark fluid that Jon has some horrible suspicions about. She freezes when she spots him and the two of them blink at each other for a long moment.

“Jon?” she stutters out, and Jon has to wonder who she thought he was.

“Yeah,” he murmurs back, going for quiet and calming but winding up an active or so too high. “Melanie…” He tries to think of what to say, how to diffuse the situation, but he isn’t fast enough. Melanie is already pacing in his direction, her steps only a little unsteady.

Jon scrambles upright, startled and frightened, but Melanie doesn’t attack him. Instead she grabs his arm, tugging him all the way up to standing.

“You’re actually just who I needed. Your boss wouldn’t believe me when I went to your stupid little Institute, but you’re going to have to. See this?” she shakes him roughly and points to her arm. It’s where the stains- the blood- is coming from, Jon realises. There’s a cut there, clean through her shirt and jacket but a little ragged and dirty, as if made with a rusty blade.

“This was given to me by a ghost!” she exclaims, shaking Jon again, and he nods quickly in hopes she might let him go if it seems like he believes her.

She doesn’t, not immediately, instead breathing heavily and staring at the wound with wild eyes. Then the door to Georgie’s bedroom opens with the woman herself on the other side, rubbing her eyes blearily.

“Melanie?” she asks, and Melanie’s grip on Jon goes slack. He tries to pull away entirely, but she doesn’t let go, so he decides to take what he can get.

“Georgie, sorry for waking you, I-“ she starts, voice going soft and quiet.

“Is that blood?!” Georgie interrupts, suddenly wide awake. She is across the room in an instant, taking Melanie’s arm and inspecting the cut.

“Sit down, for god’s sake, and let go of Jon! I’ll go get the first aid kit,” she orders firmly, and Melanie doesn’t argue. She sits down heavily on top of the quilt, letting out a shaky breath. The admiral had left his perch some time earlier in the night, but now he comes out from somewhere by the kitchen, meowing softly and jumping on the couch beside her.

Jon stands there, awkward and unsure what to do. Finally, he goes to get himself a chair, seeing as Georgie is likely to sit on the couch with Melanie while patching her up, and it really isn’t big enough for all three of them and the Admiral.

It doesn’t take Georgie long to find her bandages. In the meantime, Melanie has shrugged off her jacket and, after considering her arm for a moment, her shirt as well. Jon averts his eyes, but Melanie just snorts at him. He takes it as permission to look and finds that she is wearing a sports bra anyways.

When Georgie is sat by her side, carefully cleaning and bandaging the cut, Melanie turns back to him.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Ghost Hunt UK went under recently,” she tells him, much calmer now. Jon nods hesitantly; he had heard mention of it, but with everything going on it hadn’t been at the forefront of his priorities.

“Well, I just ruined any and all chances I may have had at another career in the field. Not that there were many left, after I started looking at less… reputable sites,” she casts her eyes down at where her free hand is absentmindedly stroking the Admiral, who is purring loudly.

“Reputable?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow. Georgie and Melanie roll their eyes in unison.

“All paranormal investigators and ghost hunters tend to stick to specific places, places that have been investigated before and deemed interesting enough to report on but overall- safe,” Melanie explains in a dismissive tone.

“And you don’t anymore?” Jon frowns; Melanie had always seemed quite proud of her job.

“Yeah. After the whole fiasco at Cambridge Military Hospital, I- well, everything fell apart by pieces, and I started doing research on my own again, focusing on war ghosts,” she explains. Jon searches his memory, trying to remember any episodes about hospitals, but his recollection is blurry.

“That part isn’t so important,” Melanie interrupts his pondering. “Today, well, yesterday, I went out to look at one of those places that nobody seems to go, even though there are reports of them being weird. Not one of the ones that are clearly just made up, but one that doesn’t make any sense to be telling ghost stories about.”

Jon doesn’t like where this is going at all.

“And I found something! There’s this train carriage, you know, on this scrap yard. It has been there for ages, the report said, but nobody seems to ever want to actually scrap it. The guy said it smells like blood. So I went to check it out,” she’s getting a manic look in her eyes again and Georgie tuts at her to keep still.

“And you were attacked by a ghost,” Jon finishes for her. Melanie snarls at him, earning her another reprimand.

“I’m telling the truth, I swear!” Melanie hisses at him through clenched teeth. Jon holds up his hands placatingly.

“It’s not- look, why don’t you tell me exactly what happened,” he suggests, and it seems to calm her down at least superficially. She starts again, with the report, over breaking and entering the scrap yard, to the scene she witnessed inside the cart.

When it comes to her being dragged away, Jon stops her. “Are you going to get in legal trouble over this?” he asks, concerned, but Melanie waves him away.

“Probably not, it’s not like I was trying to steal anything. Not to mention, they probably think I’m crazy.” Jon isn’t quite so sure, but, well, it really isn’t any of his business.

“Georgie, aren’t you done cleaning that yet?” he asks, having noticed her spending way too much time disinfecting the wound. She is frowning at it, confused.

“It isn’t- The rust won’t come off,” she explains, voice plaintive.

Jon gets up to go take a look. She’s right, the wound looks clean and ready to be bandaged except for the slight specks of brownish metal. He reaches out to touch one that is outside of the cut, and his finger comes away clean.

“It isn’t real,” he thinks out loud. Melanie’s renewed glare is what jars him into explaining.

“Not- it’s, well, ghost rust? Or something like that. It isn’t physically there. That’s why it won’t come off with cleaning supplies, you can’t actually touch it.”

“So, what, we just bandage it up and leave it on? I don’t know if I like that thought very much, Jon. Can you get blood poisoning from ghost rust?” Georgie worries, but starts getting out the bandages.

“Probably not? I don’t like it either, but with no way of getting rid of it…” Jon answers, mouth twisting unhappily. Melanie shakes her head, then shakes it once more.

“Just patch me up, G. Nothing for it,” she tells her girlfriend, who complies but clearly isn’t happy with it. Jon stays standing by her side, watching the bandaging process carefully. He isn’t sure what he is watching for, but whatever it is, he either misses it or it never comes.

* * *

Jon goes back to work on Monday as if in a daze. Everything, from the general state of his world to the prophecy of his death and the whole Melanie business, it’s just- a bit much. His mind is at once awhirl and unable to form a single thought. He dresses, eats and takes the underground totally on autopilot. When he arrives, everyone else except Sasha is already in.

It stays that way the entire day. Jon works through statements for her, his stack slowly dwindling, but she never appears, doesn’t even text with any new tasks or questions. While not unheard of, it does strike him as a little strange.

Tim remarks upon it when the end of the day rolls around, hands stuck in his sweatpants. They’re a little large on him- maybe they aren’t from his closet?

“Doesn’t look like she’s coming in today.”

Martin hums from where he is standing in the kitchen, doing the dishes for the day. Jon is drying today, all of their mugs of tea and some cutlery from lunch passing from the sink to Martin to him and then to their places in the cupboards.

“Probably busy almost getting herself killed again,” Jon comments, making Martin and Tim frown at him. He shrugs and gives them a wry look in response.

“It’s only happened two times, Jon, that’s hardly a pattern,” Tim admonishes him. “Unless you count that weird papercut she got in October, and that happened in here.”

“You’ve got to admit though, the normal amount of near-murders in an archival position should be zero,” Jon rebukes, then considers. “Also, are we certain, in light of recent revelations, that that was actually a papercut?”

“What else could it have been?” Martin asks quietly. Jon shrugs, not having thought that far.

“Maybe that spider over there got a leg on one of our bread knives,” Tim says with a grin, pointing at a small black spot on the ceiling, just to watch Jon jump and look around frantically, almost dropping the mug he’s currently drying.

Martin sighs, drying off his hands. “Now you’ve done it. Come take over, Tim, I’ll go take the little thing outside.” He gets out a glass cup and goes to fetch some cardboard, and Jon very inconspicuously (aka not at all) goes to stand so that Tim is in between him and the spider.

Tim doesn’t argue and goes to continue washing up for Martin while the man carefully catches the spider and leaves the archives with it.

Jon keeps an eye on the procession, just to make sure it doesn’t escape, then returns to his task once more.

After a moment of working together in silence, Tim sighs. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “That was uncalled for.”

“It’s fine, I know it’s silly,” Jon returns. He’s heard the jokes, even Georgie has made them plenty of times. But Tim shakes his head, vehement.

“No, it isn’t. Especially not now. The Web is always being associated with spiders, maybe we could all stand to be a little less complacent with their presence everywhere.”

Jon hums. “That’s not really why I’m scared of them though, isn’t it? What I have is a phobia borne out of childhood trauma, not a reasonable suspicion towards what are probably agents of an eldritch entity of fear,” he muses. Tim snorts and bumps their shoulders together.

“Can’t it be both?” he asks, and Jon snickers too.

“I guess both is fine.”

Martin returns shortly, putting the cup in the almost empty sink and the cardboard in the trash. “Are you two bad-talking spiders again?” he asks when he finds them giggling together like schoolboys.

“Uhuh, we were just discussing how they’re probably spying on us for the Web,” Tim explained, mirth mostly banished once more. Martin hums, considering.

“Probably, yeah,” he finally decides, shrugging his shoulders indifferently. Jon gives him a frown.

“That doesn’t bother you at all?” he asks, uncomprehending.

“I mean, we’re in the domain of the Eye, right? What’s another pair of eyes when the whole place is spying on you?” Martin tries to explain, but Jon just shakes his head.

“But the Web isn’t just observing, surely if it’s present it’s also influencing us?”

Martin snorts. “Yeah, and so is every ad in this city. How many times have you agreed to let some website track your ad activity in this past week, Jon?” Jon doesn’t recall. Damn it, but he sees Martin’s point. “There’s really no point getting wound up about it if you ask me. If the Spider is influencing us, well, we would never know until it’s too late anyways, wouldn’t we?”

Jon sighs, shoulders hunched. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he mumbles, and Tim nudges him in solidarity.

“Let’s stop being so grim, alright? No need to make this any harder on any of us,” the taller man suggests, handing Jon the last fork to dry. Jon and Martin agree easily, eager to lift the heavy mood a little. None of them can shake a small bit of unease, though.

* * *

The sense only grows stronger when they all come in the next day to find her office once again distinctly empty and untouched. They settle in to work, further whittling down their respective stacks, but once again there is neither hide nor hair of Sasha.

None of them say anything this time, but the Archive is pressingly quiet that day.

This goes on for another two days before any of them suggest bringing it up with Elias. All of them have worked through most of their backlog, lots of statements regarding clowns and circuses and such, and now they’re a little out of their depth on what to do.

“Would he even help, if he could?” Martin asks, clearly doubtful.

“She’s the Archivist. If I understood her right, he has some unexplained interest in there being an Archivist. That should mean he wants her alive and around, right?” Jon argues, and all three of them sit considering that for a moment. Then the door to the Archives opens, and the man of the hour strides in.

“Well spotted, Jon. And I can assure you, gentlemen, Sasha is in the highest-quality care around. Surely, you three can find something to do on your own, while our dear Archivist… relaxes?” Elias is smirking, probably lording some sort of superior knowledge and insight over them. Martin and Jon both shrink back a little, but Tim’s hackles are already up.

“She didn’t seem particularly set for vacation last she was here, boss,” he points out mulishly, watching Elias’ every movement with sharp, dark eyes.

“Oh, I’m sure she didn’t. But, well, sometimes the Strangest things happen,” Elias is already turning around again, not giving any of them the chance to ask any more questions. Tim’s shoulders jump in time with the click of his heels.

The man is barely out of the door and Tim is already on his feet, pacing.

“God, I hate that guy,” he says at a louder than normal volume. Martin flinches.

“Tim, h-he can-“ he starts, but Tim interrupts him.

“Hear me? I don’t give a shit, Martin. Actually, since he can probably also see us with his creepy voyeur powers,” Tim makes several rude gestures at the direction of the entrance. “Bougie bastard,” he finishes, sneering, then continues pacing.

“So what do we do?” Martin asks, shoulders still hunched. “He’s clearly up to something, do you think Sasha has been kidnapped or something?”

Tim snorts. “Clearly! And from the way he was talking- it was probably the  _ Stranger _ .” He spits the last word out with so much contempt that even Jon rocks back in his chair.

“Tim-?” he starts, but Tim just shakes his head.

“Not here, where Mr. My-husband’s-old-money can peek. Let’s go down into the tunnels, I think- maybe it’s time I tell you guys a fun little story.”


	10. Chapter 9 - "Easy Breezy"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Independent research

Tim’s story is… chilling. Jon knew that he had a brother, somewhere in the back of his mind, but-

Tim doesn’t talk about his family a lot. Jon had always assumed that the reasons involved less clowns.

The imagery stays with him, haunts him, really, and sometimes he almost thinks he can hear… well, something like music, but not quite. But in his head it isn’t Danny getting skinned, who Jon had of course never met but who Tim had shown them pictures of on his phone, screen dimming in the oppressive darkness down in the tunnels. Instead it is Tim, beautiful, sweet, funny Tim, and it makes shivers run up and down Jon’s spine like a swarm of spiders.

He finishes the last of his assigned work about an hour before the end of his usual work hours. Jon looks at the neat stack of properly researched and annotated statements, considers double-checking all of their completeness, considers just going home ahead of time, considers his fellow assistants.

Both of them are also almost through their stacks, bent over their desks and focused upon their research. Tim is wearing a light purple sky-print sweater that Jon is pretty sure he has seen Martin in before, the garment large and gaping at the neck, pushed up to his elbows so he can work without it getting in the way. Martin himself is wearing a green cardigan over lavender trousers and a pink T-shirt. It’s a cute look, even if the colours wash out his light complexion a little.

Jon looks back towards his desk. Elias had said to research on their own, but what to research?

An unbidden image of Oliver springs to his mind. Jon frowns, trying to remember any statements specifically mentioning or centring around a fear of Death. He makes a list of any that he remembers, then gets to work seeking them out.

* * *

Tim finishes his last statement assigned by Sasha just in time for the end of the workday. He emerges from his research trance, looks around and finds himself all alone, on first glance. Jon’s desk is neat as always, statements transferred to his habitual ‘Finished’ stack. The man himself is nowhere to be found, but Tim thinks he can hear shuffling deeper in the Archives.

Martin’s desk is less neat, but he seems mostly done with his work as well. He must be, Tim can hear water running in the kitchenette. He immediately gravitates towards it.

Martin is exactly where he expected him, washing the day’s dishes, cardigan abandoned somewhere so it won’t get wet. Tim takes the tea towel without question, starting on the drying.

“I wonder what we’re supposed to be researching, now that Sasha isn’t here,” Martin wonders aloud, not taking his eyes off his task. Tim hums.

“We could try to find out what we can about the Circus of the Other, see if we can’t rescue her,” he suggests. Martin shoots him a glance, probably covertly checking him for signs of distress.

“Elias didn’t say that it was the Circus who took her,” he points out, making Tim frown.

“I sort of assumed, since he insinuated the Stranger being involved. You don’t think there are more of those cursed things, do you?” he asks, clutching his tea towel a little tighter as fear creeps along his neck.

Martin turns off the tap, wipes his hands on a spare towel and then turns to take Tim’s hands.

“We can’t assume that there aren’t any,” he answers, squeezing Tim’s smaller hands with his. Tim squeezes back with a small grateful smile, then pulls away to finish drying.

“Well, then let’s just look at any other statements relating to the Stranger as well, I guess,” he concludes, and Martin nods along.

Tim finishes quickly, putting away the last mug and then hanging the tea towel back on its hook with slightly shaky hands. He turns around and leans against the counter, raking a hand through his hair.

“I can’t believe that the boss is gone and we’re expected to just continue working as if nothing happened,” he mutters, tugging at Martin’s sweater’s sleeves and crossing his arms.

Martin comes to stand close by his side, their shoulders brushing.

“Well, it’s not like we can  _ leave _ , so what else is there to do?” he asks, and Tim has a thought.

“Actually…” Tim begins, frowning, and Martin gives him a questioning glance. Tim doesn’t elaborate, though, just shakes his head and pushes off the counter to head back towards the desks.

Jon is there. Neither of them had noticed his return, so it startles them a little. He’s carrying a thick stack of statements, expression far away and chewing at his lip rings as he drops them on his desk.

“What’cha got there, Jonny?” Tim asks, walking over to take a look. Jon jumps, having been lost in his own world, and almost topples the statements with the movement. He scrambles to catch them and secure them back, then sheepishly turns to them.

“Ah, just some independent research, I guess,” he explains.

Tim takes a statement off the top, opening and skimming the opening paragraph.

“Living Mummies?” he asks, smirking at Jon, who shrugs and snatches the statement back.

“Just- taking precautions,” he tells them, and won’t say any more on the matter. The look in his eyes makes Tim uncomfortable, though. There is a quiet desperation there, like he’s trying to weigh one bad fate against another. 

He keeps an eye on Jon as they all go to fetch their bags and jackets. The look doesn’t go away.

As they’re leaving the Institute, Tim says, “I’ll be doing some, ah, ‘independent research,’ too.” He does his best to sound flippant, but he can’t help but try to assure them, “Don’t worry if you don’t see me for a while.”

“Tim-“ Martin starts to question, but Tim is already striding away towards Hyde Park. Martin shares a glance with Jon, but the other man just pulls an unhappy, helpless expression and turns to leave as well.

He thinks he hears Jon mumble, “See you tomorrow, Martin,” then Jon is walking away. Martin is left behind to worry on his own.

* * *

Tim doesn’t appear at work the next day. Jon starts reading through his stack of statements regarding the End, but he’s easily distracted, at all times expecting one of his missing co-workers to walk in. Martin seems the same, jumpy and distractible.

He’s looking for mentions of the Circus of the Other, Jon finds out on the second day of their two-man venture. It makes Jon feel guilty; Martin is helping, trying to find a way to recover Sasha, to maybe avenge Tim’s brother, and here he is, doing research that really only serves himself.

He doesn’t stop, though. There must be something, some way to escape the looming end that Oliver Banks had prophesied. He doesn’t- he doesn’t  _ want _ to die.

How was he even going to get himself blown up, honestly? London was a big city, sure, but even here bomb threats weren’t that common of an occurrence, much less one actually going off. Maybe a building being demolished? But what in the seven hells would he be doing in such a place?

Jon frets and thinks himself in circles, growing quieter and quieter as the days go on. He considers going in on Sunday, continuing his near-frenzied search for a viable way out, even though he’s pretty sure that at this point he may have read any and all real-sounding statements about the End that there are in the Archives.

To be fair, it’s hard to tell. Meetings with the grim reaper and zombies and such are common prank stories, so finding the ones that don’t suit the typical narrative is- difficult.

He seriously thinks about going in, but then Georgie calls him. She asks him to come over, and he does, figuring that at the very least Georgie will understand why he isn’t in the most chipper straits.

It turns out, neither is she. He gets it out of her after a bit of prodding: Melanie has disappeared. In the dark of the night, she had just- gone. Georgie is trying to be optimistic, hopeful, trying to trust her girlfriend, but she remembers the night she had come back from the train wreck just as well as Jon does.

They sit in silence for a long while, staring out of the window into the typical London drizzle and leaning against each other for strength, both physically and mentally.

Finally, Georgie shakes herself and gets up from the old couch.

“I’ve got some skittles somewhere, wanna play Sugarjack?” she asks, and it startles a laugh out of Jon. He is quick to agree- it’s an old inside joke, a game they played sometimes both as a couple and before that, bartering over candy through Blackjack.

They take turns as both dealer and player, colourful skittles moving from bowl to bowl, switching every time Georgie’s one old deck runs out. They tend to get really into it, being competitive people. Jon finds with joy that he is winning, slowly – he hasn’t practiced his card counting and basic strategy since they broke up, but apparently, just like riding a bicycle, the habits come back quickly.

Georgie had never had the patience for it, getting frustrated with the losses one has to accept despite one’s best efforts. She always claimed that it was cheating, but that hadn’t ever stopped her from playing anyways. There aren’t any real stakes, after all; she’s just going to end up stealing back half of the skittles anyways.

During the third round, Jon suddenly remembers something. A statement he had read almost at the beginning of his stint as an assistant. At the time, he had dismissed it as total horsecrap, a stupid story or maybe a hallucination born out of a strange psychosis. There was no way, he had thought- but then again, maybe there is.

Georgie snaps him back out of it then, him having forgotten to continue dealing with this new train of thought. They finish their deck and then decide to give it a rest, Jon having grown distracted. They share the skittles equally and turn on a documentary on deep sea creatures and the Admiral settles between them, purring loudly. 

Jon strokes him thoughtfully, attention turned inwards. It’s crazy. But maybe crazy is just what Jon needs.

* * *

Tim returns to work exactly two weeks later. He comes in wearing only fashionable joggers – his own, for once – and a blue crop top with cut-off arms. Neither of them actually see him come in; he’s just already there when Martin and Jon open the door to the Archives, having met at the station.

“Hi, guys!” he greets them cheerily, looking up from a statement that’s open in front of him. Martin waves, a little dumbfounded, but Jon gives him a once-over and shakes his head.

“Tim, it’s March,” he points out.

“So it is, Jon, so it is,” Tim responds with a slanted grin.

“Aren’t you cold? This place isn’t exactly well-heated, or insulated for that matter,” Jon asks. Tim chuckles, then looks back down at his statement.

“Can’t say I am. I like the draft.” Jon can only shake his head again and pull his own cardigan tighter around himself. Tim doesn’t seem willing to discuss what he had been up to, in fact, he seems quite ready to immerse himself in his work. Jon can’t argue with that, even as he can’t make sense of the sudden change in work ethic, so he heads to his desk.

“So, what have the two of you been working on?” Tim’s voice echoes around the cavernous cellar strangely, bouncing off the stone walls. It makes chills run down Jon’s spine, but seems to delight Tim.

“I’ve been helping Martin look for statements about the Circus of the Other,” he answers more quietly, and Martin gives him a small smile. Tim hums, looking between them.

“That’s good, find anything interesting?” Tim asks, leaning towards them. It makes the chain around his neck swing forwards, a necklace that Jon hadn’t even noticed until now. It’s strange looking, a simple silvery chain with a clear glass bead like a teardrop at the end. On second look, it isn’t a bead at all; it’s hollow, filled with blueish liquid, entirely enclosed. There’s tiny air-bubbles floating around in it, swaying here and there with the movement of the necklace, and Jon finds himself almost getting lost staring at it.

He tears his eyes away and finds Tim watching him with a strange look in his eyes. Jon straightens, bristling with heat rising in his cheeks. Tim doesn’t say anything, though, just raises an eyebrow and prompts, “well?”

Martin reports on their meagre discoveries. They haven’t found a lot, really, searching blindly as they are. Tim nods along, easily agreeing to help them comb the statements on file. The three of them settle into a new rhythm, working together instead of their usual single research. 

Soon, they have all migrated their main workstations from separate desks to the big centre table. It’s comfortable if unfamiliar, or as comfortable as looking for the killer clowns who have probably kidnapped your boss can really be.

Jon likes it. He missed Tim, even as he had enjoyed talking to Martin more in the past weeks than ever before. It had been nice- Martin is nice. Jon likes him, and it’s such a silly thing to focus on with everything going on, but the butterflies he feels whenever Martin smiles at him or touches him are distracting. Martin has stopped stuttering so much around him, more confident and able to hold conversations, and Jon is so happy about it even as he scolds himself for being silly.

Tim is distracting, too. He’s acting more like himself, like the man that Jon had known for years in research than he has been for a while, even as he’s startlingly different in ways that Jon can’t describe. 

He wears the necklace every day, forming a habit of fidgeting with it or holding on to it with his free hand, and his clothing remains entirely weather inappropriate. He doesn’t offer any explanation for these developments, and Jon doesn’t know how to ask. 

The outfits stop bothering Jon relatively quickly; they suit Tim, even as they make him shiver to look at. He catches Martin staring, though, and he doesn’t think that has anything to do with the cold. Sometimes Tim will catch him, too, and wink or make a teasing comment, and every time Martin goes red as a tomato, squeaking and stuttering. It’s funny, and awfully endearing, and makes Jon’s chest swell with emotions he refuses to name. 

This isn’t the time, he tells himself. They have more important things to do than- well, whatever that is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't love this chapter, tbh. It feels rushed, but a lot of my writing does to me. But I promised a chapter by Tuesday, and today is Tuesday, so here it is. I hope you enjoyed it anyways!   
> I have an exam that I am absolutely going to fail on Thursday, so bets are out on whether or not there will be any new chapters till then. No more than a week for the next update, though, I promise!


	11. Chapter 10 - "Another Door Opens"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha returns to the Archives, and plans are made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Beta has been busy lately, so this has only been edited by me. Feel free to point out any glaring mistakes.   
> That said, this chapter didn't flow quite as nicely as I am used to from this fic, but the next one is going better. Sorry if this isn't the most interesting one, we're getting to some good stuff soon!   
> Thank you everyone who comments and leaves kudos, I am very happy with the reception this has received! I will be busy studying till the 8th, but then once that exam is over I'll be able to focus more on this fic. Wish me luck!

“You know, I must say, Elias, can I call you Elias? I know you did not pick this one, the old Archivist chose her to play a trick on you, but I like her! She’s very polite, all things considered, has barely asked any silly questions. And she’s so pretty!”

“I do wish she would stop glaring so. We gagged her, just to make sure, and the lights are out, but she seems to know where I am anyways. How delightful! They’re pretty eyes, at least. What a shame we’re going to have to take them out.”

“We will barely have to do anything at all for her skin to be ready! She takes very good care of it, even if she does pick at it tragically. Well, she can’t hurt her pretty face now, with her hands bound. And we’re going to make sure it’s just perfect for when we skin her! Isn’t that exciting, Archivist? It’s going to be just like- what do you call it- a Girls’ Night! Do you have a preferred brand of lotion?”

[fabric shifting]

“No? Oh well, we’ll just pick up a selection. You know, I was going to wait, but… have you ever had one of those backup plans that, when you think about it, they’re, they’re just more fun? So, I thought, out with the old, in with… well, in with the  **you** !”

“Oh, do stop glaring, you’re scaring me! He can’t see through your eyes, can he, your Elias, can I call him Elias? I shouldn’t think so. Maybe I should get you a blindfold now that I think about it. Just a moment!”

[footsteps leave and a door closes]

[a different door opens]

[sound of cut fabric]

“…Michael?”

“No, dear”

* * *

  
  


Sasha returns to the Archives almost a month to the day after she had first vanished. Tim is the first to come in, and there she is, sitting at the centre table where all of their stuff is focused now.

She looks markedly unruffled, face giving away nothing, but Tim can see the tense way she holds herself, picks up on the way she holds her hands in front of her, sometimes rubbing at her wrists as if expecting them to be chafed. He can’t see any redness, though; how strange. And on that cue-

“Did the Circus take you?” he asks her in lieu of a greeting, and Sasha gives him a startled look. Had she not heard him come in? She nods, though, once again rubbing at her wrist.

“How did you escape?” he asks next, sitting down opposite her.

“Something rescued me,” she answers quietly. Tim frowns at her.

“Something?”

“It- He- She- I don’t,- it’s hard to explain. That’s kind of the point, really,” she tries, clearing up exactly nothing. Tim continues to frown at her, but she just shakes her head helplessly.

“An ally?” he questions. Sasha shakes her head again.

“A- a friend, maybe, but not an ally, not really,” she mutters. It’s Tim’s turn to shake his head, uncomprehending. Sasha shrugs, helpless and a little distressed. Tim sighs and lets it go.

“Well, welcome back. We’ve spent the last few weeks trying to find you, by the way, not that it’s been very fruitful.” They exchange a look and Sasha gives him a weak grin. He grins back, just as insincerely, but it makes him feel better anyways.

“Sasha!” come two calls from the doorway; Martin and Jon have arrived, together, they probably took the same line to work today. That seems to happen more often these days, Tim has noticed. He’s glad they’re getting along now, happy for Martin, but at the same time, he’s selfishly jealous of both of them. 

His little impromptu holiday had been- illuminating, but the week alone seems to have left them with some sort of comfortable understanding of one another that Tim looks at with some trepidation. If they were to get together, he would be left behind, just like always, and he doesn’t  _ want  _ that.

The two of them hurry over, Martin fretting over her and checking her for non-existent injuries, Jon asking her the same questions that Tim had asked and getting just as few real answers.

When they’ve all sat down, Jon asks a new question.

“What did they want you for?”

Sasha grimaces, hand coming up as if to scratch at her face, a familiar habit for her, then lowering again before she can finish the motion.

“My skin. They’re planning some sort of- ritual, to end the world, something like that. Bring the Stranger fully into the world, make it theirs, bring about eternal suffering and confusion. And for that, they need a skin. I am told that I am, and I quote, ‘quite powerful, not to mention  _ symbolically  _ appropriate,’” she says the last part in a lilting, sing-song-y voice that grates on Tim. He thinks he can hear organ music from somewhere, and it makes him shiver.

“And now? Can they not finish the ritual without you?” he asks, hoping to banish the feeling. Sasha considers, but shakes her head, dropping a stone in Tim’s abdomen.

“I think they’ll find another way. My escape has probably bought us some time, though. We need to figure out how to disrupt this. I’m sure that Gertrude had some sort of plan for this, she used to talk about these rituals quite a lot. I just need to figure out her notes, and I’m sure we’ll find something.”

Tim is about to ask something else, but the door to the Archives opens with a creak. In comes first an Arab woman with a police badge pinned to her plainclothes, then Elias Bouchard, three-piece suit and obnoxious moustache groomed as always.

“Here is- oh, Sasha, you’re back!” he exclaims, interrupting himself theatrically. The policewoman turns to examine the four of them, cataloguing them and giving them all small nods, then turns to their boss.

“This is the woman whose disappearance you called me here to investigate?” she asks, her tone a touch sardonic. Elias nods, making a very fake-looking expression of contrition.

“Yes, yes, she hadn’t come into work for at least a week now, and-“ Sasha is suddenly on her feet, her face set in stone, chair clattering behind her.

“A Month!” she accuses, slamming her hands on the tabletop.

The policewoman turns to her, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?” she prompts.

“I have been gone a month, you little weasel, kidnapped and tied to a chair by a shitty clown puppet and given a forceful spa treatment, and now you call the police, the day after I escape? I am going to-“ The policewoman stops her there with a hand in the air.

“Don’t finish that, whatever you’re going to say,” she advises.

Elias is badly hiding a smirk, mirth evident in his eyes.

“Oh, but how could I have known you would return to us? I was simply worried for you, dear Archivist,” he says, and it’s clearly a lie, so obviously mocking that it makes Tim’s spine prickle and hackles rise, but the policewoman just sighs. She reaches up to adjust the folds of her headscarf, then rubs at her eyes.

“Alright, Mr. Bouchard. Since the missing person has reappeared and my superiors seem to be of the opinion you aren’t to be bothered if at all possible, I’m just going to ask some quick questions of her and then I’m going to leave and put this whole thing into the files. You can leave us, I’m sure you have more important... business to attend to,” she suggests tiredly. 

Elias gives her a patronizing smile, reaching out as if to pat her like a child but seemingly thinking better of it at the last moment when her expression tightens.

“Of course of course, Detective, I’m sure you will handle it from here. I’ll take my leave.” And with that, Elias is gone again, and the Archives seem to breathe a collective breath of relief. Sasha runs a hand through her hair, then gestures to their visitor.

“Come sit down, pull up a chair, we can do the interview right here,” she offers. The woman raises an eyebrow but complies.

“So, Detective, what do you need to know?” Sasha asks, but the woman shakes her head.

“Not a Detective, just a simple Officer. Basira Hussain, good to meet you, Ms. James. Is your boss always such a joy to work with?” Sasha snorts and shares a look with her assistants.

“The benefits are decent,” she non-answers, and Officer Hussain’s mouth quirks. Basira asks them all their full names and phone numbers to write down, then gets down to business.

She starts out with her pencil moving quickly over the page, but the longer Sasha speaks, the less she writes down. Kidnapped off the street after work, knocked unconscious, brought to a dark room full of uncanny waxworks, forcefully fed and moisturized and mocked by a moving doll by the name of Nikola Orsinov, then rescued by a being of doors and spirals, it’s quite the story.

It sounds like a nightmare to Tim, would have even before Danny’s death, but Sasha seems startlingly unconcerned. Annoyed, sure, and unnerved whenever she remembers being touched by plastic hands, but not- traumatized, not the way she was after Jude Perry or Mike Crew. He admires her steadfastness, even as he shudders at the idea of spending a whole month in such a place.

“And they’re preparing for some sort of- ritual, you said?” Hussain asks after Sasha is done, crossing out her page with a clear motion and then closing the notebook. Sasha nods, wringing her hands. The policewoman sighs.

“My superiors are going to want to hear exactly none of this,” she mumbles, rubbing at her temples.

Martin’s brow crinkles. “Surely, the police won’t just ignore something like this?” Four different raised eyebrows greet him. He visibly reconsiders his question, then grimaces.

“Ok, so the police aren’t going to be of any help then?”

Officer Hussain shrugs. “Not officially, no. If you guys need anything, you can call me and I’ll try my best, but I’m still junior, haven’t been sectioned for long. I only have so many connections.” She gives them her phone number, ripping a page out of her notes before putting the booklet away again.

“Sectioned?” Sasha asks as she takes it. Hussain grimaces and Tim gets the impression that she hadn’t meant to say that, then shakes her head. She starts to rise.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet all of you, but I’ll get going now if that’s all?” Officer Hussain shakes their hands around the table and then quickly leaves the Archives, steady footfalls echoing down the hall.

All of them sit in silence for a moment.

“Why did the Spiral monster come rescue you, Sasha?” Martin asks in a hushed voice. Sasha’s face goes through a flurry of emotions, then settles on uncertainty, a displeased twist to her expression.

“No clue, to be honest. I’ve met the thing that used to call itself Michael a few times now, and I used to think it- they?- sort of liked me, or found me funny at least. I don’t know… It’s not Michael anymore now, and I didn’t understand its explanation, and at this point I’m pretty sure that that’s the point. It’s the Spiral, I don’t think you can  _ understand  _ it,” she rambles, words coming faster and faster, her knuckles turning white as she wrings her hands.

Tim can’t stand to watch her distress and quickly interrupts her by catching her hands and unwinding them from one another. “It’s alright, don’t strain,” he soothes her quietly. Martin frowns at him over the table, but Tim just shakes his head with reproach.

“The most important part is that you’re back. You said that they’ll find another way, right? So let’s focus on stopping this ritual entirely, and then after that we can worry about other entities making trouble,” he tells Sasha, expecting this to help her recover her footing and start handing out tasks, but to his surprise she slowly shakes her head, pulling her hands away to run them through her hair.

“No, I think- I think there’s nothing much here to find. Gertrude left behind some notes, but they’re incomplete and some just plain don’t make any sense!” Tim can almost hear her teeth grinding at this. He wonders how long she spent on trying to make sense of them. After a moment, Sasha continues.

“She travelled a lot before she took me on, sometimes with a companion, and I think I need to go find out why, and what she found,” she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than them, but Tim isn’t about to argue. It’s as good a lead as any of them have.

Jon has been quiet for a long time, listening to their conversation, so the sound of his voice startles Tim a little. “A companion? I thought she didn’t have any assistants for years before you.”

Sasha spreads her hands in a so-so gesture. “No assistants, no, but she did have some allies. She had regular correspondence with a man named Adelard Dekker, and she mentions a Gerry in her notes-“

“Gerry Keay?” Jon interrupts, surprised. The name rings familiar with Tim as well, though he has a hard time placing it. Sasha nods.

“I assume so, though she never used his full name.” Jon makes a quiet ‘huh’ noise but doesn’t otherwise comment. Tim tries to figure out what he’s thinking, but that has become increasingly hard lately. He used to be able to tell Jon’s emotions off his bearing alone, but he’s become even more closed-off, and it worries Tim. 

“Anyways, I threatened this traffic warden into giving me some of her old files – it’s a long story – and there is mention of her going to Beijing. There’s a sister organisation to the Institute there that she may have gone to, and I want to go see if they know what she travelled all that way for. After that- well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Sasha continues her plan. Martin and Jon are nodding along, both looking vaguely unhappy but accepting. Tim has some misgivings, though.

“You’re going all alone?” he asks, disapproving. Sasha gives him a startled look and nods, shrugging. “Isn’t that dangerous, though? Who knows what you might find.”

Sasha bites her lip. “I don’t think Elias would grant me travel money just so I can take a bodyguard, Tim,” she points out, “Not to mention, I’m the Archivist, right? I can- defend myself, I guess?” Tim snorts in response, though he sees her point.

“What are you going to do, ask an attacker uncomfortable questions until he leaves?” he criticises, and Sasha kicks him under the table.

“Oh, shut it, I’ll take my pepper spray if it makes you happy.” 


	12. Chapter 11 - "Funny Business"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We continue towards the Unknowing, with some strange discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I emerge from exam hell, not truly victorious, but alive. Thank you everyone who stuck around, and everyone who has commented or left kudos on this ever. We're getting towards the end of the first arc of this story, and I'm so excited. I hope you are too! Thank you for being patient with me.

Jon finds the tape entirely by accident. He is searching for a paperclip, all of his having somehow mysteriously disappeared - he suspects Tim, but he has no proof - so he goes into Sasha’s empty office to look for hers.

The drawer is already slightly open, or he wouldn’t have looked at all. He goes to close it, finds it stuck and starts rattling and pulling it to knock it loose. It fights him for a moment, then suddenly comes out all the way, knocking him clean off his feet.

He’s lucky that the office door fell shut behind him, otherwise no doubt Martin or Tim would have heard his fall and come to investigate. This way, he can just get up as quickly as possible, cursing under his breath as he rubs his sure-to-be-bruised backside.

The contents of the drawer have been strewn across the floor, and Jon hastily gathers them again. There isn’t much of interest: some pens, a few empty files, a rubber band. But then he picks up the tape.

It’s immediately obvious that it isn’t one of Sasha’s. It’s a little battered, clearly old, and the handwriting isn’t hers. The sticker with the label has yellowed and peeled a little at the edges, and Jon instinctively tries to smooth them down. He frowns at it, curious despite himself.

He shouldn’t. He has better things to be doing, more important research to focus on. But he puts the tape into a conveniently near tape recorder anyways and rewinds it to play.

Two voices emerge under the whirring of the tape, one vaguely familiar from similar old tapes, another entirely new to Jon. They bicker for a moment, then Gertrude brusquely introduces her guest. “Subject is Mary Keay, recorded 3rd of July, 2008.”

What follows is a truly grisly story, but what really sticks with Jon is the idea of recalling someone from beyond death using this- skin book. What are the chances of the Institute just having that laying around? It bears checking.

* * *

Sasha texts from Beijing, informing them she’s going to America next and giving them some instructions to look up any statements they could find on the Taiping Rebellion, a search that yields pretty much nothing except some old newspaper articles from the library.

This continues on, until a few days later she asks for information on an arrest. Apparently, Gertrude had broken into a morgue. Honestly, the more Jon learns about the woman, the less he knows what to think of her.

She contacts them once more to let them know she would be taking a bus towards Washington, then, for days on end, nothing. Tim starts fretting almost before a whole day has passed, and while Jon understands his worry, he also is quietly rejoicing at the chance to do more of his reading regarding the End.

He can’t find any more mention of the Skin Book anywhere, which is immensely frustrating. Combing through the disorganised statements for any mention of it is a time-consuming task, and its lack of yield makes Jon want to pull his hair out.

In his desperation, he returns to just reading anything and everything relating to Death. Still, the more he looks, the more it seems like there’s only one person who had ever escaped the inevitable, and Jon would really prefer not to bet his continued existence on his Blackjack skills.

The other two have noticed that something is going on, he can tell by the looks they give him whenever he returns from deep within the stacks upon stacks of paper with another armful of statements.

Martin tries to ask once, whether Jon needs any help, but to his shame Jon blows him off quite rudely. Tim never tries, but after that his looks start being more chiding and less concerned. It makes Jon hide behind his statements even more, avoiding both of their eyes.

He realises only with this conscious avoidance that Tim and Martin don’t seem to be around a lot. The longer Sasha is gone, the more often Jon will look up to find himself alone in the Archives. He wonders what they’re up to, whether they’re together somewhere, then does his best to stop wondering.

It doesn’t work. Mostly because he can’t seem to actually catch them leaving. They’ll be there one moment, then he’ll not pay attention for just a moment and they’ll be suddenly gone. Jon tries not to distrust them, but he can’t help but be increasingly suspicious, with all this talk of the Stranger they’ve had lately.

* * *

Sasha walks into the Archives and immediately feels something in her settle down. It makes her a little sick to think about, so she doesn’t examine the feeling too closely.

Only Jon is in, and he jumps upright at the sight of her. He’s reading a statement, but Sasha doesn’t have the mind to figure out what it is right then; she has a goal.

She waves away his surprised greeting and his half-formed questions, instead striding straight into her office. There’s no time, she needs the key.

Sasha hesitates in the middle of the room, unsure where to start. She had already searched the office for anything left behind by Gertrude to help her, had looked in every drawer and every cabinet and found nothing but a lot of spiders and some odd items; brightly coloured hair ties that Sasha can’t imagine Gertrude ever wearing, a ring with a spider on it that Sasha has taken to wearing, black nail polish, some crocheting hooks.

She starts at the desk again anyways, opening every drawer and looking inside as if expecting to find something new there. Some of them are a little out of order, but then again, she had left the office open for her assistants’ use.

Jon has followed her and is now standing in the door, dark eyebrows drawn down in uncertainty. She doesn’t pay him much mind.

“Sasha, what are you-?” he asks her, and her eyes briefly fly to him. He’s still alone, where have the other two gone? Tim is on the roof, the back of her mind supplies, and she curses out loud. Her powers had started being more prominent all throughout the trip, and now it seems she barely has to think a question anymore before the knowledge just jumps into her head.

Gertrude had always warned her of overusing them, of the way it leeches away humanity and makes one more dependent on statements. Sasha had gotten sick just a few days in, and likely would have assaulted someone if she hadn’t taken the precaution of taking a few written statements with her.

Forcing Mustermann’s head to talk had felt good. The thought makes her uncomfortable, even if he was a creature of the Stranger. But maybe, if she’s strong enough for that, she can just know where the key is?

She stops her frantic search and leans her hands on the desktop, closing her eyes and reaching-  **_reaching-_ **

Loose floorboard.

Sasha’s eyes fly open, blinking wildly as the foreign knowledge fills her mind. Jon startles, taking a step back, and she wonders why until she realises that her eyes must be green again. She grimaces at the thought and the way it makes her assistant flinch away; she really wishes that whole episode after Jude hadn’t happened, so he wouldn’t be so scared of her.

No matter. Sasha steps around the desk and starts testing the floor with her feet. Finding the floorboard doesn’t take her long, the office isn’t very big. She pries it open with her fingers, nicking a fingernail in the process, then sits down heavily when she sees what is inside.

A laptop. The key, yes, but also Gertrude’s old laptop, and how could this possibly have been here all this time and Sasha just hadn’t- What are the chances that Elias knew about this, of course he knew, the little weasel, but he just didn’t say anything, let her find it on her own. She can already hear his speech on her development, whatever that really means, forming in the back of her mind.

Sasha is ashamed to feel wetness forming at the corners of her eyes. She never- she didn’t ask for this! Chasing Gertrude all over the world, getting kidnapped for the second time in a month just to find out that what she had needed had been here all along?

It’s too much. She can’t do this.

A thin hand lays itself gently on Sasha’s shaking shoulder. For a brief moment she almost thinks it may be Michael- Helen- whatever- because the creature always seems to appear just when she’s this close to breaking. But it’s just Jon, looking unsure and awkward and a little panicked, of course it’s Jon, he had been watching her have this little breakdown from the start.

She gives him a shaky little smile, trying to reassure him. She knows, of course, that there’s no point to this. There’s no way out, no way of leaving the Institute and the Archivist’s position behind. Just because she maybe hadn’t been as well-informed upon agreeing to take it as she had thought, Sasha still made her choice.

“It’s fine, I’m fine, just- stressed,” she tries to sound truthful, wiping away the tears on her cheeks. “Being kidnapped twice in a month will do that to you, I guess.”

Jon’s expression does something funny, like he’s struggling with how to react, then he settles on a sigh, letting go of her shoulder to rub at his temples. He settles down next to her, pulling his beige cardigan around himself like a cocoon.

“Who was it this time, then?” he asks, clearly trying not to sound long-suffering but not quite managing. It’s his usual manner and makes Sasha’s mouth tick up in a more genuine smile.

Sasha had rarely spoken to Jon before he had become her assistant. She had known Tim fleetingly from office parties, and Martin had been a new hire for the position, but Jon had always been a bit of a familiar unknown at the Institute. People talked about him, about his prickly personality and reclusive habits, but rarely ever to him.

She hadn’t been sure what to think when he had been slated to become her assistant. Elias had hinted heavily that he would have preferred Jon to become Archivist despite his clearly lesser qualifications, but Gertrude had pulled some sort of fast one over him. She may have threatened a sexism lawsuit for all Sasha knows; it had never seemed wise to ask that woman too many questions.

But Jon had never complained. At first, she had thought his reticent nature may be resentment, but she had soon realised that that was just how he was. His interactions with Tim, and to a certain point Martin, had made that clear.

By now it’s mostly endearing, how bad he is at showing that he cares. He does, though; otherwise he wouldn’t be staying and asking questions.

“Hunters. Julia Montauk and Trevor Herbert, I don’t know if you’ve read about them?” He shakes his head in response. She must’ve given those statements to one of the others, then. “Well, they hunt monsters: vampires, creatures of the Stranger, that sort of thing. They’re criminals, unpleasant people, but they didn’t hurt me. In fact, they were pretty helpful when they weren’t threatening my life.”

She turns to her backpack, riffling through it as she talks. “There was this police officer who was following me. He wasn’t a real officer, I don’t think, he was one of the Stranger’s weird little puppets. They got him off my tail, in a way. And they gave me access to this,” she pulls out Gerry’s page from the skin book with the last word, brandishing it.

Jon stares at it, leaning away as if expecting it to explode, but takes it with careful fingers anyways. He skims the text and his face shutters.

“Sasha? What is this?” he asks carefully, and Sasha realises her mistake.

“It’s from a Leitner, pretty clearly End aligned. It kind of binds spirits to this world, you can call them by reading the page out loud,” she hurries to explain, but instead of reassuring Jon this seems to only disconcert him more and he puts the page down between them.

“And who is this?” he asks hesitantly, as if unsure he really wants the answer.

“Gerry Keay,” Sasha choses honesty, watching his face scrunch up then relax again immediately. He’s staring at the page, and Sasha can’t figure out what he’s thinking at all. “I promised to burn his page,” she tries out, wanting to see his reaction.

His eyes jump up towards her, then fix back onto the page. “And are you going to?” he asks her, and Sasha feels struck. Is she? 

She’s saved from answering when the trap door in the corner of the room suddenly opens. Jon jumps almost a whole foot into the air, freezing. 

Martin’s head emerges from it, and suddenly Sasha realises that she hadn’t been able to find him before. 

He’s as startled to see them as they are, it seems. “Who is-? Oh, Sasha you’re back!” he exclaims, rushing the rest of the way up the ladder when he spots her and closing the trapdoor behind him. 

Jon hasn’t turned to look at him yet, but a deep frown mars his face. Sasha can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s curled in on himself a little. She wonders what he’s thinking again, but then, she isn’t quite sure what to think either. 

“What- What were you doing down there, Martin?” she asks, not even trying to suppress the unconscious power behind the question. Martin doesn’t flinch, though. 

“Oh, just looking around. There wasn’t much to do, so I thought, you know, maybe there’s something useful or interesting down there. Only found a lot of blood, though,” he answers in an almost chipper tone. Sasha watches Jon’s hands clench and unclench as she considers this. 

“It’s Gertrude’s,” she explains quietly. “I was the one who found her down there, after- well, officially, it was a suicide. The police swept it under the rug so well that almost nobody at the institute even heard that much, though. They took away her body and the files she had down there, and I’ve yet to get access to most of them.” 

Martin hums, giving her a look that is at once concerned and piercing, then drops his backpack and turns to leave the office. 

“Anybody want some tea?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There have been quite a few versions of this chapter over the time I spent chewing on it, and this final one was only written just now. So if you found any mistakes, do let me know, I didn't give my beta a chance to correct them.


	13. Chapter 12 - "The Dead of the Night"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new old friend, and a kiss

It takes them the better part of the day to unearth the location of Gertrude’s storage unit. There are a lot of calls full of wheedling and half-truths, not things Jon is very good at. He’s exhausted by the time evening comes, many restless nights catching up to him despite the sheer volume of coffee he consumes. But he doesn’t leave with everyone. 

Instead, he disappears into the stacks around six, the time they usually pack up, and then waits there until the Archives fall silent. It’s a gamble, hoping that Sasha won’t lock up either her office or the Archives proper, but it pays off. When he’s certain everyone is gone, he emerges to find the hall quiet and dark but the doors unlocked.

He wonders for a moment if Sasha knew what he was doing; wonders if she Knew. Wonders if she is letting him do this. Then he files that away for later consideration and walks into the office, trying to ignore the creeping anxiety that the impenetrable black shadows that cling to every corner and gap make him feel.

Jon turns on Sasha’s desk lamp, the weak old bulb sputtering to light and creating a small perimeter of light around it. It makes the rest of the room seem even darker in comparison, causing Jon to fidget and glance around with every flicker. 

He had carefully memorized where Sasha put the page, so it takes him only a moment to find it in one of the desk drawers. Jon is careful in handling it, shuddering a little at the thought of what it is made of, what it holds. He puts it down on the tabletop and starts reading in a hushed whisper:

_ “His consciousness faded in and out like the tide. He tried to refuse their drugs, though for what purpose even he could not have said. Perhaps he was simply trying to push away the smell of disinfectant and grief that rose from his hospital bed. She was there sometimes, the one he had followed around the world. There was almost sadness in her eyes. He felt himself begin to slip, the icy certainty of what was happening seeping through his flesh, and as he fell away for the final time, he felt that all-consuming fear. And his only thought was to cry out for his mother. But with the last vestige of his stubborn will, he refused. She would not claim his last moment. He was silent.” _

There’s a pregnant silence in which Jon didn’t dare unglue his gaze from the words. Then,

“You’re not Sasha.”

Jon takes a shuddering breath, putting down the page and examining the spectre on the other side of the table. Gerry is almost exactly as advertised: badly dyed black hair, smudged eyeshadow, old school, grunge-y goth aesthetic and all. He’s slightly translucent, though, and unexpectedly familiar. Jon squints at him.

“Gerard Keay?“ he asks, voice still hushed. Gerry squints right back at him, giving him a careful once over. Then his eyes grow wide.

“Wait a moment, I know you! You’re the singer of that one weird band, the neo-folk in space guys, right? What’s the name, something with an M-“ he points a see-through finger at Jon, a grin spreading on his face. Jon can feel blood rising to his cheeks, suddenly grateful for the low light.

“Ah- I mean,- not anymore, I guess. We broke up years ago.” Jon tugs at his own ponytail, self conscious. “Didn’t think you knew who I was, to be honest. You never seemed all that into the music,” he mutters, and Gerry shrugs, making a so-so motion with his hand.

“It was alright. A little pretentious if you ask me, but at least it was a fresh concept. You always seemed a little twiggy for a space pirate, though.” Jon huffs, worrying at his lip piercings, but doesn’t argue. Georgie used to say much the same thing.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be the phantom of the alternative music scene I guess,” he grumbles, crossing his arms, and Gerry laughs at him. This is more emotion than he remembers ever seeing from the man at the gigs, but then he wasn’t exactly paying attention. Back then, Gerry had been a bit of a cryptid in their circles, not that anyone had known his name. 

Gerry rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling a little. “It’s not that hard, you just keep showing up but don’t ever talk to anyone!” Jon finds himself smiling back. It’s a little wry, but it’s more genuine than he can remember smiling for a while. Then he remembers why he is here, and the expression falters.

“When you stopped hanging around, there were the wildest theories where you had gone,” he starts, eyes dropping back down to the page in front of him. “Someone actually tried to make people believe you were a vampire gone to hibernate, but nobody really bought that.” When he glances up, Gerry’s grin has turned wry.

“Wish it was that cool. Nah, just boring old cancer that got me. And then Gertrude came and bound me to mum’s book, the one she had promised she had destroyed. Real kick in the nuts, that,” he says running a ghostly hand through faded black hair. Jon feels suddenly incredibly guilty for what he plans to ask. 

“I- I’m sorry, Gerry,” he says, the words feeling entirely inadequate even as they leave his mouth. Gerry sighs, then waves it away.

“What’s done is done, I guess. Sasha has promised to burn the page, maybe this time the Archivist will actually keep her word,” he says, and Jon can’t conceal a wince. Gerry catches it, frowns and asks “What?”

“I don’t- I’m not calling Sasha a liar, but- well. It feels like she doesn’t know what she’s first, these days. Sasha or the- the Archivist, I mean. I don’t know that she won’t talk herself out of it every time. You- you’re famously useful,” he tries to explain, gesturing pointlessly. Gerry pins him with a look, light brown eyes washed out to almost grey, and Jon feels like his soul is being examined. It’s not a pleasant feeling, though it doesn’t hold up to being forced to recount your worst childhood experience in front of your boss and co-workers, Jon notes.

Gerry drops his eyes with a deep sigh, reaching up again to muss up his hair further. “Damn it, and she seemed so decent. This Institute really brings out the worst in people.”

Jon snorts wryly at that, thinking about Sasha’s little breakdown earlier, about Tim’s emotional outbursts, about Martin’s pervasive habit of putting everyone before himself. Thinking about his own obsessive attempts at avoiding something that, by all means, should be unavoidable.

“Yeah,” he agrees, reaching up to run a hand through his ponytail in a mirror of Gerry’s motion. They sit in silence for a lasting second.

“So, Jonny or whatever, what’s this about?” Gerry finally asks, and Jon flinches. He doesn’t want to do this; he has to know, can’t stop now, can’t give up, but, hell, he feels like an ass.

“It’s just- I’m going to die soon,” he starts, then falters. “There was, uh, this guy. An avatar of the End, or whatever. He pretty much prophesied me an unpleasant end a few weeks ago, and I’ve been looking everywhere for some way to avoid it but- there isn’t- but then I heard about that book, and Sasha brought your page, and I just wanted-“ he’s not being very clear, interrupting himself and stuttering and hesitating, but Gerry seems to get the gist, because he holds up a halting hand.

The look in Gerry’s eyes is just shy of pitying, a deep sympathy that gives Jon all the answers he really needs. But Gerry speaks anyways. “I’m sorry. Dying is scary, I know, by god I know, but- no. I’m sorry.

“This book, this undeath, it’s not- it doesn’t feel good, it feels so wrong. It’s like being asleep forever, but the worst parts are when someone wakes you up because then you get to be aware that this is all your existence is ever going to be anymore. Mum tried for years to find a way to attain eternal life through the book, and even her ritual ended up faulty. She was unstable all the way until Gertrude destroyed her. I refuse to tell you how she did it, and you can’t make me.”

Jon lets out a shaky breath that he didn’t realise he had been holding and slumps deep into his seat. He knew this, in a deep corner of his mind. He knew that this would not be his easy way out, or even any way out. This was, is- too much, not worth it. 

But that leaves him with his only other plan, and that one is barely even any plan at all, leaving Jon feeling unmoored, hopeless. He puts his face into his hands, first just to rub at his eyes so they will stop stinging with tears but then he just- leaves them there, for a long time.

When he removes them, Gerry is gone.

* * *

They meet at Gertrude’s storage unit the next morning. Or, well, they meet outside the building that holds it and go look through the doors together, while Sasha explains what she has found out. 

Martin tries his best to pay attention to her, but he keeps getting distracted by how exhausted Jon looks. His skin is pale, there are deep bags under his eyes and he is wearing the same clothes as yesterday, just more rumpled. He’s dripping coffee from a cardboard to-go cup, grimacing after every sip, with a monotonous repetitive motion that suggests it is entirely on autopilot. 

Martin has had bad mornings after worse nights before; he wishes he could talk to Jon, help somehow, but all he is able to do is keep an eye on him as they walk.

Apparently, the Stranger’s ritual can’t be stopped, only delayed. But once it is underway, it is vulnerable to interference. 

Martin interrupts his careful watch over Jon to check on Tim. His expression is sour, anger simmering behind a clenched jaw, and Martin would love to reach out and smooth the frown off his handsome brow. But the others are here, and their unspoken boundaries don’t allow that. He isn’t sure whether it would even help, anyways. 

Sasha admits that she isn’t certain what they will find, how Gertrude planned on destroying the ritual, and as she unlocks the gate, they all stand there and imagine what she may have come up with.

The gate opens to reveal a whole lot of unmarked boxes, which is kind of anticlimactic. Then they start looking inside and discover the explosives.

“This is… a lot,” Jon comments when they have opened all the boxes and discovered that they are mostly filled with them. He sounds almost faint, and Martin gives him a concerned once-over. He looks stable enough; Martin sidles closer anyways, just in case. 

Looking around at all the boxes, he himself feels an awed, morbid curiosity. How did Gertrude even get these? What will they do?

Do any of them even know how to use these?

“Do any of us know how to use these?” he asks out loud, breaking the silent contemplation their little group had been locked in. Jon and Tim slowly shake their heads, but Sasha bites her lip.

“I can probably figure it out,” she says and all eyes turn to her. When she realises they’re staring at her, her shoulders draw up, defensive. “What? I was in Artifact Storage before all this. We used to blow things up sometimes, just to see what it would do- or as a last resort.”

That makes sense, but only increases Martin’s respect and fear of Artifact Storage and the people employed there. He hates that place, couldn’t ever imagine working there - though the Archives are turning out to not be quite as safe and cozy as he had hoped, either. 

Sasha takes another long moment to take in the contents of the unit, then shakes herself.

“Martin, Jon, you two go through these to see if there’s anything else interesting. I’ll take Tim with me back to the Institute; I need to look into some stuff and then we need to formulate a plan,” she orders, waiting for their agreement before walking out.

Tim follows her out without looking back, a steely expression on his face. Martin wants to talk to him, make sure he isn’t having silly ideas, but he’s left behind with Jon instead. 

Jon is already getting to it, a little unsteady as he threads around the explosives and looks closely into every box.

They look through shredded newspapers, eyeless dolls, paintings with the eyes cut out of them, but none of it is really all that interesting beyond its objective weirdness.

Martin discovers the leftovers of the gorilla skin tucked into a smaller box with a book of names without any context to them. Martin carefully checks for Leitner bookplate, then leafs through it to see if any of them jump out at him as familiar. Jon continues further into the unit without Martin.

They have been working mostly in silence, so Martin notices when his shuffling steps stop dead. Jon is frowning at some piece of paper, skimming over what appears to be a typewritten note, standing surrounded by the cases of explosives, leaning against one of them. 

“Jon?” he prompts, just trying to catch his attention, but Jon startles, stumbling and making a motion as if to hide the sheet of paper somehow. Martin jumps too, worried about jostling the case Jon is leaning against. He moves towards Jon as quickly as he can without tripping over anything.

“What’s that?” he asks, and Jon catches himself. He shakes his head as if to clear it, holding out the paper for Martin to look at. 

“A note left by a man named Adelard Dekker. He must’ve procured these for her somehow. He talks about a boy who would murder people in their dreams,” he explains while Martin glances over the text.

“We should probably show it to Sasha,” Martin notes and Jon grimaces, drawing the paper back to himself. “You don’t think so?” 

Jon folds the note and tugs it away into his fancy leather shoulder bag, taking his time as if stalling. Then he sighs.

“No, you’re right, we should. It’s just- I still don’t really trust Sasha, if I’m honest,” Jon explains. Martin considers this for a long moment. He finds he can’t really blame Jon; she hasn’t exactly done anything to win their trust lately.

“Jon-“ he starts uncertainly, not sure what to say. He trusts Sasha - he doesn’t think she has anything to gain by fooling them – but Martin doesn’t believe that that will help Jon. 

Jon sighs again and shakes his head, reaching up casually tugging out his mussed and loose ponytail to run his hands through his hair. He gives Martin a wry smile. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll give it to her when we get back. I’m just being silly,” he dismisses, and Martin frowns.

“I don’t think you’re being silly, Jon. It’s just that you’ve been strange lately, and I’m worried. Is the thing with Sasha really still bothering you that much?” he asks, taking a chance he hopes desperately he won’t regret it.

Jon gives him a long look while he fixes up his hair, putting it back up with a skill that Martin admires a little, inscrutable. They’re standing pretty close, crowded in by stacked boxes and crates, so Jon has to look up quite a bit to do so. 

It always gives Martin a rush of happiness to remember quite how tall he has become. He had been a solid head shorter before hormone therapy, and the growth spurt had hurt quite a bit at the time, but it means that he can look Tim in the eyes without straining. The same can’t be said for Jon, though, something Martin privately finds both cute and amusing.

His elbow brushes against Martin’s chest with his movements, and it feels strangely intimate all of a sudden.

Jon has to reach a little to reach his face for the kiss he presses to Martin’s cheek. It surprises Martin so much that he doesn’t even react at first, then, still a little shocked, he reache up to the spot as if checking that the sensation was real.

“You’re sweet,” Jon mumbles, then turns away, hiding his face.

Jon’s voice is a little shaky as he strides away quickly, leaving the storage unit and Martin behind. “Come on, there’s nothing else interesting in there.”

Martin stands there for another long moment, wondering what the hell just happened. He’s blushing like mad, he can feel the heat under his skin. He’s unsure what to do with himself, how to interpret the strange gesture, unsure what Jon had meant by it, unsure just in general to be honest.

It takes him a long while to realise that Jon hadn’t actually answered his questions. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god this chapter. I've edited and rewritten parts of it so many times, but I never got around to posting it. At this point, I am just declaring it good enough as-is so I don't have to look at it again. Sorry for the long wait, everyone! I'm a bit of a mess rn, but I'm working on it!


	14. Chapter 13 - "Props"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Emotions happen that aren't properly talked about. Also Explosives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha oops, sorry for the 2 month hiatus guys! In my defence, there was some corona-related but non-corona family business to deal with (I had to watch my favorite and only niece for a while cause she had sniffles) and, well, what even is time in 2020.   
> Fun fact, this has been mostly done since mid-August, except for the very last two paragraphs.

They are planning on spending a few weeks refining their plan and preparing, but the Circus forces the matter just a few days later.

Sasha had found out where they were hiding - The House of Wax, in Great Yarmouth. Jon didn’t ask how she did it, she looked weirdly embarrassed about it. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her blush before.

Tim drives down to the seaside town to keep an eye on it. He seems slightly cheered by the idea of seeing the sea. Or maybe he’s just trying to cover up the way his jaw still clenches at any mention of the Stranger’s creatures. 

Martin has been looking increasingly concerned at all of them, fretting and making tea to keep his hands busy, but whatever it is that is bothering him, he doesn’t bring it up.

Jon himself, well. It has been over a month since Oliver prophesied his death now, and he feels like he’s living on borrowed time. He knows, any day now, the other shoe is going to drop, but – it doesn’t bother him as much, anymore. There’s a low thrum of terror and it’s making him jittery, but he’s found that if he focuses on the present, on the moment, he can almost forget about it. There’s nothing to be done anyways.

When they had been planning, sat around their big table in the Archives, Sasha had suggested that she wanted to go in alone. Tim had predictably refused point-blank to be left behind, and Sasha had conceded easily; Jon has the feeling she didn’t want to be alone either.

Jon had looked at Tim, had looked at Sasha, and had volunteered as well. He knows it’s stupid, that he should be fighting the inevitability of Oliver’s prophecy every step, but the idea of hiding away and letting them go die instead, it doesn’t sit right with him. If Oliver is to be believed, his death isn’t avoidable, but maybe theirs are.

He should warn them, probably. He doesn’t. Jon doesn’t want them worrying about him. Stopping the Circus is more important.

Jon almost expected Martin to volunteer simply because this meant he would be left on his own to “look after the archives,” but he just fidgeted and stayed suspiciously silent the whole time. His expression had been inscrutable, no more or less worried-looking than usual.

* * *

Tim calls Sasha in the middle of her recording a statement in her office, door closed the way it only is when she does, and she immediately walks out into the main archives to let Jon and Martin listen in.

There is a rushing over Tim’s voice on the line, like a windy sea, but Jon can’t figure out why he would be that close to it.

The Circus has gone graverobbing, he reports. Gertrude’s grave. Sasha is shocked – she had thought that Gertrude had been cremated.

They get ready quickly and take the drive to the shore in the same evening. Sasha calls Officer Hussain before they leave, letting her know. Apparently, they had been in touch on-and-off since Sasha’s kidnapping; it’s the first time Jon hears of it.

Sasha doesn’t explain, even on the three-hour drive. They don’t talk a lot at all, and Jon spends a lot of it staring out of the window into the rainy darkness outside while his leg bounces on the slightly stained car seat.

Tim meets up with them in a supermarket parking lot a few streets down from the wax museum. It’s dark, the rain further worsening the visibility, but he’s parked his car in the cone of light of a lone street lamp. He is windswept and damp from the rain, clothes rumpled, but there’s an energy thrumming just under his skin, a grim smile playing around his lips.

Seeing him shakes Jon awake a little, and he gravitates over towards him first, leaning against the car beside him. Tim doesn’t say anything, but he casually throws an arm over his shoulders in a way that used to be familiar before they transferred into the archives. His eyes are still steely, but now he looks almost excited; His grin is just a little off. 

Jon used to mind this casual touch, used to dodge and complain about it all the time, but now it’s comforting. He leans into the warm contact a little, and Tim’s arm tightens, and for a moment it feels like they’re the only real people in the world, standing in their lonely spot of light. Then Sasha joins them.

“You’re certain it was Gertrude’s grave?” she asks, and Tim nods.

“Pretty certain, yeah. Had her name on it, at least, and it was the only grave with loose earth in that cemetery,” he reports, tense but mostly pleasant. “Following that thing there in the first place was tricky, but I don’t think it saw me.” Jon isn’t sure what to think of that.

Sasha clicks her tongue and runs her hand through her hair. Then she nods, decisive.

“Very well. We should act quick, get the charges set before they start.” She turns heel and heads back towards their borrowed car. Tim tightens his grip on Jon to keep him from following her.

“Are you sure you want to be here for this, Jon?” he asks, not looking at him but staring up into the greyish night sky. Jon gives him a long look, then huffs.

“I’m not letting you go on your own,” he responds sternly. Tim finally looks down at him, and his eyes are soft in a way that Jon doesn’t know what to do with. He lingers for a moment, searching for something else to say, but in the end he just flees back to Sasha’s side. If she noticed him lagging behind, she doesn’t comment.

* * *

Sasha has a clear plan of where to set the charges, marked on a detailed map of the building that she got from who-knows-where. They sneak in through the back and then split up, each with their charges and instructions.

The building is deathly quiet except for them. In fact, the town outside had been weirdly lifeless as well, and the silence, combined with all the weird waxworks, makes the hairs on the back of Jon’s head stand on end. He hurries as much as he is willing to, handling the explosives with not a little anxiety, trying to get back to the others as quickly as possible.

They meet back outside the room Sasha believes to be the centre of the ritual sooner than anticipated; the others seem to share his sentiment. Jon takes a moment to look at them, takes in tense expressions and anxious fidgets.

Tim keeps glancing to the door to the room in question and away, chewing on the inside of his cheek, brows deeply furrowed. Sasha is fidgeting with the detonator, eyes wandering from waxwork to waxwork, turning her head as if trying to catch the smallest sound.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Tim suddenly blurts out, voice quiet but explosive and echoing strangely in the hall. Sasha startles badly, whirling on him, then visibly catches herself and lets out a controlled breath.

“Yeah, I-I’m sure,” she answers shakily but firmly.

“But-“ Tim starts, gesturing towards the door. “Nothing is happening!” he exclaims when Sasha gives him a questioning look. He huffs and starts pacing, arms crossed close to his body.

“I’m sure it’s here, Tim. You’re the one who has been watching this place, surely you should know. I don’t know why it’s so quiet either, but-“ Sasha starts, annoyed. Jon is watching them carefully, so he catches it when Tim’s long steps leave his circuit to instead walk towards the door.

“Tim! Don’t!” he calls out, reaching out to catch the back of his jacket, and Tim turns to give him a glare.

“I’m just going to take a look! I refuse to sit here and be lead on by these bastards, surely a glance won’t hurt,” he whisper-shouts, gesticulating, and Jon is shaking his head, getting ready to talk him down, when suddenly the quiet is broken by something almost like music, muffled by the door.

All three of them freeze, exchanging near-panicked glances.

“This is the right place,” Sasha states and all of them nod. Tim hums, his gaze once again fixed on the door. Jon still hasn’t let go of him, and he doesn’t particularly plan on it.

“What now?” he asks Sasha. She frowns, looking around.

“Well, we’re- done here, I guess. We should go, blow this place to pieces,” she answers hesitantly, eyeing the hall with a frown. Tim scoffs.

“And how do we know the organist isn’t just warming up? Maybe the ritual hasn’t even actually started yet! We should take a look.” Jon is shaking his head already, but before he can argue, Sasha lets out a squeak.

“T-That wax figure over there- it’s eyes- they moved,” she stammers, pointing at a wax work of a man in a tux with a bad moustache. Jon and Tim immediately snap their heads to look at it. At first, they think Sasha may have imagined it, but soon its eyes move again, rolling in their sockets.

“If the wax works are coming to life, we really need to leave!” Jon insists, tugging on Tim’s jacket weakly. It gets Tim to finally turn back to him, and he reaches up to take Jon’s hand in his instead. Jon can feel a blush rising in his cheeks, but he squeezes his hand anyways.

Sasha is eyeing up the wax works closest to them, frowning.

“Hey, this- this isn’t wax,” she murmurs, reaching out as if to touch. She snatches her hand away before she can, though, eyes widening.

“They’re not waxworks, guys,” she states, louder. They turn to her with confusion, but soon comprehension dawns on them. Tim curses, horrified, and tugs Jon closer to his side as he casts his eyes in a circle around them, taking in the figures surrounding them.

They’re starting to move more now. Tim makes as if to stand in front of Jon, but they’re everywhere. Sasha backs up towards her two assistants.

“I think- I think Tim’s right, let’s check that they’ve started and then get out of here,” she tells them, sounding almost sure of herself. Tim huffs and Jon grimaces, but doesn’t object. He feels Tim squeeze his hand, then he’s being tugged towards the closed double doors.

Sasha is the one that cracks them open while Jon and Tim keep an eye on the ‘wax works’ coming to life around them. They’re horrifying to look at, with their skin missing and their blood drained, leaving them pinkish but pale. Their eyes are wild, rolling here and there, unseeing, and they don’t make any sounds. Not yet anyways.

The music gets louder as Sasha peers through the barely open door, an explosive gust of breath leaving her at what she sees.

“What’s happening?” Tim asks, making as if to turn and look himself but inhibited by Jon’s death grip on his hand.

“It’s the Anglerfish,” Sasha murmurs in answer. “It’s this thing that used to lure people in and use their skins to make puppets it could then use as lure in turn. I thought it ate the rest of them- seems it made them into statues instead.” Jon snorts, hysterical.

“That it?” Tim prompted further. Sasha huffed.

“No, give me a moment- There’s Orsinov, she’s leading some… dancers? Breekon and Hope are there, too, with their weird coffin. And- Shit!“ Sasha cuts herself off with a yelp, stumbling back and right into their backs. They catch her and barely keep all three of them from falling to the floor, but Sasha doesn’t pay them any attention, her eyes fixed on the doors. 

They blow open in an explosion of off-key organ music and high-pitched giggles. 

“Look Who’s Come To Watch Our Show!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha Cliffhanger. Sorry about that, I promise I'll try not to be too long with the actual Unknowing. On the upside, once that's done this will get much easier on me! Should be fun.   
> Just letting yall know, I don't actually have this beta-read anymore. The only edit I do is the one proof-read right before posting, so if there are errors, uh, keep them. They're yours now.


	15. Chapter 14 - "Cold Coffee"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poker?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha remember in September when I said I wouldn't be long? Well, you can see how well that worked out. Happy New Years, folks! 
> 
> In an attempt to finally get this written and out, I will not be editing these chapters anymore. The moment they leave my fingers and I deem them finished, I post them, or at least I don't bother looking at them again beforehand. No editing we die like we already have that ADHD diagnosis.
> 
> Content Warning for this Chapter: depictions of being blown up and choking. Nothing graphic imo

They are swallowed by the ritual and everything stops making sense.

Sasha has a hard time knowing anything at all in the moment. What she pieces together afterwards is this:

She gets separated from Tim and Jon almost immediately, while they’re all stunned. Sasha holds onto the detonator, it just made sense since she was the one who knew how to use it. She grasps it tightly now, not sure what it is, not sure of anything, not even her own identity. But she holds onto it.

Nikola, in hindsight it’s probably Nikola, tries to make Sasha give it to her. She pretends to be Tim, “Your Friend Tim, remember?” but here’s the thing: Sasha has spent these past few months having regular coffee(?) dates(??) with the Throat of Delusion Incarnate, or whatever Michael used to call itself. Helen isn’t as fond of dramatics, so she doesn’t know what she would call herself except ‘Helen.‘

Point is, Sasha is used to bullshit. She has gotten used to being lied to until her brain feels freshly tie-dyed, and she has siblings, so “let me hold that for you” is not a prompt she trusts at face-value, or any value for that matter.

Instead, she looks down at the remote in her hand, at the little red light and the button, and thinks, “if I was holding this, I must’ve meant to use it, right?” She can’t be certain. (Of anything, really.) 

She does it anyways.

The world goes white, then red, then black.

* * *

Jon has been carrying around the old deck of cards since that night at Georgie’s. He’s kept it in his pocket, tucked away but always in reach, always there to touch and feel when he got anxious. It’s been a comfort, if a bit of a hollow one. His only chance. 

In the confusion of the Unknowing, he winds up taking it out. He was searching his pockets in a desperate attempt to know himself, find out who he was, what he was doing here. When he hits the corner with his finger, frayed with age, he pulls it out and looks down at it with a frown. 

It’s a faded cardboard box, about a centimeter thick and rectangular, and over the cover, someone has scrawled “CALL OLIVER” in a messy, familiar-ish hand. 

“Oliver?” he asks out loud, confused. Who is Oliver? Who is anyone. 

“What you got there?” says a voice with a strange accent Jon struggles to recognize. Is that Oliver? Jon doesn’t think so. 

“Oliver?” he tries again louder, for want of anything else to say. He doesn’t know what the thing he’s holding is, but it said to call Oliver, and in that moment, Jon is all too happy to follow its simple instructions. 

Jon hears voices in the middle distance. Who are those people? Is any of them Oliver? Will Oliver help. Jon suddenly feels desperate, afraid and lost. 

“OLIV-” he shouts, at the top of his lungs, but the second half gets drowned out by an even louder bang. Jon feels himself be lifted off his feet, then he loses track of what is happening completely. 

* * *

It could be moments later or hours when Jon feels himself… come to? He isn’t sure, it’s like he’s not aware one moment and then suddenly he’s there, sitting at what looks like the table of a 24 hour coffee shop he swears he’s been to before. There’s impenetrable blackness all around though, the linoleum floor seeming to end with the border of light cast by a single fluorescent tube above. 

There’s a mug of greyish coffee in front of him, and Jon knows without touching that it is cold. The liquid doesn’t move, still as stone in the half-full cup, and Jon stares into it for a long moment, trying to make sense of his surroundings. 

The lamp flickers on and off with a click, and Jon jumps when a hauntingly familiar man appears behind the chair opposite his. He gives Jon a slanting smile and tosses long locs over his shoulder. His chipped black nail polish catches the cold light. 

“Hey Jon. You took your time calling,” he says, still wearing that wry expression. Jon finds himself wanting to mirror it. 

“Oliver,” he says, unsure what else to say. Oliver chuckles at him. 

“In the flesh, more or less. The Stranger’s really got you messed up, huh? Take your time, we’ve got all the time in the world in here.” He sits down, the chair scraping on the floors with a dull squeak. 

A steaming cup of tea appears in front of him. Jon feels a bit like laughing, or maybe sobbing. He’s so confused. 

Instead, he looks back down into his coffee. It doesn’t look appealing. He takes a sip anyways. 

Grimacing, he puts it back down immediately. Cold, and bitter. A little sour even, and Jon hopes that’s just the acidity of the coffee and not the milk having gone bad. 

Either way, it’s bracing enough to kick his brain back into gear. He was… He was with Sasha and Tim, at the old wax museum. They were pulled into the unknowing. Then… 

“I’m dead?” he asks quietly, glancing up at Oliver, who is taking a sip of his tea. He wrinkles his nose at Jon. 

“Not… quite yet. You’re certainly on your way there, yeah, but since you called just in time, I got to hold you back in this place for a while. What you do from here… That’s up to you. I’m happy to just let you go on, you know?” 

Jon makes a quiet “ah” noise and returns to contemplating his coffee, hunching over. He shoves his hands into his pocket and hits something solid with his right middle finger, and pulls it out without a thought. 

It’s the deck of cards. “Call Oliver” is scrawled over the front in his own scrawl using failing black marker, and he stares at the curling letters for a long moment. 

“Care for a bet?” he finally rasps out, closing his eyes. He hears Oliver huff, and the clink of a cup being set down on its saucer. 

“We don’t really do that anymore, playing for people’s lives. Humans have gotten too good at cheating,” he answers, but Jon feels a ‘but’ somewhere in it.

“You can’t make an exception? You must’ve asked me to call you for a reason! Why, if not for this?” he puts the cards down on the table, dead center in front of them. 

Oliver hums, mustering him calmly and leaning back, in opposition to Jon’s tense hunch. He hums again, rubbing his nose. 

“Terminus finds you interesting. Or… well, really it wants to have a pawn close to the Archivist, and you’re the most fitting candidate,” he explains, waving a hand almost dismissively. Jon just gapes, struck mute. 

“I- the End wants- me? It wants me to become its… its what, exactly? What does ‘pawn’ mean, here?” he stammers, thrown completely off balance. 

Oliver grimaces, frowning. “It’s hard to describe. Sort of like an Avatar, but not as- full-time, I guess? A curse, more or less, in exchange for letting you live. You get to go on, but with Death looking through your eyes, using you as it wishes.” Oliver takes another sip of his tea. Jon stares. 

The clink of the cup on the saucer echoes in the nothing. Oliver sighs. 

“For what it’s worth, Terminus isn’t a demanding master,” he says quietly. Jon meets his eyes, and is shocked to find compassion there. 

“It could really be worse. I was specifically chosen, for some reason I don’t know, but most of the time I just- live my life. As much as it is that. Georgie, too, and she’s been marked for years. It can be unpleasant, you never know what effects this kind of contract will have- but hey, no matter what, it won’t be forever,” he explains. Jon closes his eyes. He’s afraid that Oliver has a point. 

“It could be much worse, you know? You could be playing with the Web, like your boyfriend. Or the Corruption, I hear that’s a full-time job. The End comes for all of us, Jon. Your choice is kind, in comparison-”

“Stop,” Jon interrupts. His eyes are still closed, and he’s frowning deeply. “Let me think.” 

Oliver huffs again, and Jon hears him take another deep swallow of his tea. 

A life as the puppet of some eldritch fear god, or death. The End, or the end. No cheating at cards, no tricks, no running from the reaper, just a choice, and really, a choice he has pondered before. 

“Will I have to hurt my friends?” he asks roughly. 

“Maybe. Not directly, probably, the End doesn’t care about pain. But you can’t stop them dying, and believe me, that feels just as bad.” 

Jon chuckles, his eyes opening once more. He meets Oliver’s gaze head on. 

“Nothing new in that, death comes for all of us. So yes - I'll take your deal.” 

Oliver blinks, then grins at him across the table. He picks up his tea cup, long empty, and holds it up for a toast. 

Jon lifts his coffee mug and clinks their glasses. Oliver tells him, “Cheers, Drink up!” so he throws it back in one motion. On the last swallow of the vile drink, something solid slides in with it, he can feel it slip past his larynx and lodge at the entrance of his trachea. He starts choking and coughing violently, gripping his throat as he tries and fails to breath, looking at Oliver in an instinctive plea for help. 

The mug falls to the plastic floor and rolls off into the darkness, disappearing. Jon’s lifeless body hits the table, toppling it. The fluorescent light flickers. 

Jon wakes up in a hospital room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are! A part of what comes next is already written on my computer back at the dorm, so I might not post until the 10th earliest. We'll see. After how long this has already taken, what's another week. Time isn't real anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> come bother me on [tumblr](https://the-ocean-in-motion.tumblr.com)(the-ocean-in-motion)


End file.
